


A Name That More Approaches Truth

by tinydooms



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2018-12-14 08:26:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 61,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11779242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinydooms/pseuds/tinydooms
Summary: A frank discussion of souls brings about the adventure that Belle so craves. But will she be able to find the soul that reaches for her own? What is more, will she be willing to reach back?





	1. Souls

 

**A Name That More Approaches Truth**

 

_Permit a Name that more Approaches Truth/And let me call thee, Lovely Charming Youth._

_\--Aphra Behn_

 

 **Chapter One** **: Souls**

     Walking in the hills was, in Belle's mind, perhaps the best thing about living in the quiet backwater that was Villeneuve. Whatever faults the town had, and to her mind there were many, the countryside around Villeneuve was beautiful. She had heard that these lands were called the hidden heart of France, a name that had endeared them to her when she and Maurice had first traveled to them after leaving the temporary haven of Rouen. Belle pulled a face as she made her way across the bridge, back into the village. She had had such hopes of Villeneuve when they had arrived, nearly a year ago. Hopes of friends and happiness, hopes of belonging. What had she received instead? A would-be suitor who would not take no for an answer and a crowd who threw her laundry in the dirt for teaching a child to read.

     Well, Eva _could_ read now and none of them could take that from her.

     Belle sighed, striding up the dusty street towards her home. Walking in the hills had calmed her ire at the unfairness of it all-for now, anyway. Wretched village. She would have to do her laundry again now, by hand, and it would have to hang outside all night in order to dry. And doubtless Gaston would be hanging around, waiting for an opportunity to accost her. Blast and damn the man. Why could he not leave her alone?

     Sooner or later she was going to have to do something really appalling to make him dislike her.

     Caught up in thoughts of what exactly such an action would entail, Belle almost didn't register the woman standing at the bottom of the garden. For a moment she watched, disinterested, then came back to herself with a start.

     “Agathe! That's all right, you don't need to do that,” she said, hurrying down the lane.

     For the spinster lady was shaking out Belle's sodden, ruined laundry and laying it across the gate, ready to be taken back to the lavarie.

     “It's all right,” Agathe replied, her voice serene. “You bought me bread and jam. One good turn deserves another.”

     Belle smiled. There were times when Agathe seemed to be about the only decent person in the village, whatever anyone else said.

     “Thank you,” she said. “You heard what happened?”

     Something flashed in Agathe's grey eyes. “Everyone did. I'm sorry for it, Belle. This village is unkind to those who dare to step from the appointed path.”

     Belle sighed and reached for one of her father's muddied shirts. “I would never have believed anyone could be so nasty about a girl reading, before I came here.”

     “You did nothing wrong,” Agathe said, shaking out a pillowcase. “You were doing that child a kindness. They'll realize it someday.”

     “Will they?” Belle sighed. “Perhaps Gaston was right and I should only concern myself with my own family.”

     Agathe gave her a wry smile and shook out another shirt. “Come now, I have rarely known Gaston to be right about anything.”

     “No? You've known him longer than I, I suppose.”

     Agathe smiled again. For a time the two women stood at the bottom of the fragrant little garden, shaking out the ruined laundry and laying it back in Belle's basket. When the last sock had been retrieved, Belle hauled the whole heavy load up into her arms.

     “Thanks, Agathe. I'd better get on with this, then.”

     Rather to Belle's surprise, Agathe fell into step with her, walking with her in amiable silence towards the lavarie. The crowd had long dispersed; most of the women and children from earlier in the day departed, but a goodly number remained, scrubbing and rinsing and gossiping. Ignoring their sideways glances, Belle set her basket down and set about filling tubs with hot water from the copper boiler. They had taken her barrel, as well as the blacksmith's donkey; she would have to do everything by hand. Well, Papa would be home with Philippe tomorrow. She could try again soon.

     Agathe did not abandon her, but began to toss linens into the hot soapy water, stirring with a wooden bat. Belle nodded her thanks, and set about scrubbing each article on the scrubbing board. It was easier with two people to soak and scrub and rinse and wring. No one approached them. Soon enough, Belle was able to hang her laundry on the communal clothesline to the back of the lavarie, leaving it to dry in the late afternoon sun.

     “There we are,” Agathe said, pinning the last shirt. “No one will touch anything.”

     “Can you be sure of that?” Belle asked. She was still disinclined to think well of the villagers.

     Agathe smiled. “Yes.”

     “Well, thanks,” Belle replied. “I really appreciate it, you know. Would you like to come back to mine for a bit? I'll make us some tea.”

     “With milk and sugar?”

     “Yes, of course, if you like. Come on.”

     Evening was beginning to draw in as the two women made their way back to Belle's house, talking of small things. Once in the kitchen, Belle set the kettle to boil and waved at Agathe to take a seat.

     “Let me feed you; it's the most I can do after your help with the laundry,” she said.

     “I won't say no to that,” Agathe replied. “It's very good of you, Belle.”

     Belle grinned. She liked Agathe; the older woman was so unapologetic about how she chose to live. Belle knew that she had a hovel in the woods, despite Pere Robert's offer to put her up in one of the village alms' houses. She didn't seem to heed what any of them said to her. Belle, still smarting from the day's injustices, admired that more than she could tell.

     “I hope you like beans,” Belle said. “Since Papa's away I was just planning on something simple.”

     “Of course,” Agathe replied. “Is there anything I can help with?”

     “No, just sit tight.”

     Belle stepped out to the garden and returned with a couple stalks of red chard, which she washed and roughly chopped. This she braised in a pot with garlic and a little oil, then added the white beans that she had been soaking since last night. With a little broth, the dish came together into a fragrant whole. It filled the little kitchen with the illusion of comfort and merriment. Belle left it bubbling on the stove for a bit while she made tea and set the table.

     “Do you think you'll stay here long?” Agathe asked abruptly, stirring sugar into her tea.

     Belle looked up from laying the table, surprised. “I don't know. Papa seems to like it here well enough. We've no reason to leave. Why?”

     “You don't strike me as someone willing to put up with Villeneuve for the rest of her life, that's all,” Agathe replied, fixing Belle with a steady look.

     “I can't leave Papa,” Belle replied. “It would kill him.”

     “Not even to get married?” Agathe said, her voice wry.

     Belle grinned a little, setting a bottle of cider on the table. “Who is there here for me to marry?”

     “Certainly not Gaston,” Agathe teased.

     Belle shuddered. “Heaven forbid. I'm _never_ going to marry him, Agathe. Wild horses couldn't make me.”

     Agathe chuckled. “He is certainly not your soul mate.”

     This brought Belle up short, glasses still in hand. “Do you believe in soul mates?”

     “Indeed,” the beggar lady said, taking the glasses and setting them down. “Don't you?”

     “I...don't know. I never thought about it before.” Belle turned back to the stove and stirred the beans, frowning. “Do you think there is one person out there for everyone, then?”

     It was a topic that she approached with caution, but Agathe was watching her with a keen, open face, and anyway, she had started the conversation.

     “That has been my experience,” Agathe said. “Two souls will reach out for each other, and if they are worthy, they will fall in love.”

     “I think that's what happened with my parents,” Belle remarked, ladling the beans into bowls and sprinkling grated cheese across the top. “They met at a market in Paris, where Maman was selling flowers. They were married a year later. Papa always says she made him work for her hand, but that he knew she was the one from the moment they first spoke.”

     Agathe chuckled. “See? Soul mates.”

     “And what happens if a soul never finds its mate?” Immediately the words left her mouth, Belle wanted to kick herself. But Agathe was not offended.

     “That happens, of course, but rarer than you might think. The soul has a way of leading one to their beloved.”

     “I think I would rather have an adventure than a soul mate, to be honest,” Belle said, passing Agathe a bowl. “I can't say I fancy the idea of being trapped.”

     “And love is a trap?”

     Belle settled into her chair and reached for her spoon with a sigh. “I sometimes fear so. It does seem to tie one down horribly. If I were to marry Gaston, for example, I would never achieve any of my dreams. I would lose myself.”

     Agathe nodded. “But if it were a soul mate?”

     “I don't know. Papa has never stopped loving my mother, and she's been dead for twenty years. Sometimes I fear that that his love for her has trapped him. Isn't it better to go through life unencumbered than trapped?”

     “Belle, no one worthy of you will ever trap you or force you to do anything you are disinclined to,” Agathe said. “You are not the sort to put up with that behavior. When you meet your soul's companion, you will only build each other up.”

     For a moment there was something strange about Agathe's face, a sort of black-eyed feyness that projected a Knowing into the little kitchen. Then Belle looked again, and saw only the usual scruffy beggar lady who had befriended her, tucking into her beans in the golden glow of the candle.

     For a while they ate in silence, dipping hunks of baguette into the broth and scooping up the beans. It was a hearty meal, for all it was so simple, and between them they managed to finish the entire pot. Belle poured out more tea.

     “I should go,” Agathe said at last, setting down her empty cup. “It's getting late. Thank you for the meal, Belle. And don't let the villagers get to you. You'll find your soul mate, and your adventure.”

     Belle smiled. “Thanks, Agathe. Can I tempt you to stay the night? It's got to be a long trek back to yours, at this hour.”

     Agathe chuckled. “The walk will do me good, and I've business to go about. Good night, Belle.”

     “'Night.”

     Belle stood in the door and watched Agathe disappear up the lane towards the bridge out of town. _Business to go about_. What sort of business? If they had lived sixty years before, Belle thought, folk would have said Agathe was a witch. Knowing the good people of Villeneuve, they probably still did. Belle sighed and shut the door against the night.

*

     Across the bridge, Agathe raised her hands in a warding gesture. Magic rushed away from her upturned palms in a great billowing gust. Maurice had wandered lost in the woods long enough. It was time for a tree to fall, a castle to be found, and a beast to be discovered.

 

 

 

Author's Note: Congrats for reading this far! I enjoyed the June Challenge so much that I decided I wanted to keep writing. What follows is The Story As We Know It From The Film, expanded upon. I hope you all enjoy it. As ever, please let me know in the comments. Thanks!

 


	2. Wine

**Chapter Two: Wine**

 

     Adam de Courcy, prince of the blood, cousin to the King of France, hideous monstrous beast, lay on his face on the floor of his West Wing bedroom. He was cold. Funny, that. Usually his fur was enough to keep him warm. _Fur_. He shifted, hating himself, and a stab of pain lanced through his head and stabbed him behind the eyes. Adam groaned and rolled over, nausea curdling in his belly. The world tilted and spun for a moment before setting itself to rights. Adam whimpered and opened his eyes.

     As a child he had often delighted in making his bed on the floor, pretending that he was a great adventurer or a pirate on the high seas. As a Beast, it was his penance. His own bed stood across from him, clean linen and velvet curtains inviting him to rest, but Adam preferred the floor, strewn with rags and feathers and bits of things that he had destroyed. He did not deserve to sleep in the bed.

     He had no idea how he had come to be lying in his nest now. The last thing Adam remembered was attacking a sixth barrel of wine in the cellar below the kitchen, wrenching the cap off with some sort of tool. A fine Burgundy, he seemed to remember, only by that point he had been past tasting it. He had wanted to get drunk, to forget the horror of the curse, only it was hard as a Beast to ever really be satiated. It seemed the sixth barrel of wine had tipped him over the edge. Adam shifted, his pounding head a dead weight on his shoulders, and moaned again.

     “You're awake, then,” came Mrs. Potts's disapproving voice, somewhere above him and to the right.

     “God,” moaned Adam.

     “Six barrels of wine. Six,” continued Mrs. Potts, above him. “Are you _trying_ to kill yourself?”

     “Go away.”

     “Not on your life,” snapped Mrs. Potts. “Get up. You need some food in you to help that head.”

     Adam growled at her and struggled upright. His former nanny and housekeeper-turned-teapot sat atop her trolley, glaring at him. Several covered dishes sat beside her. “I'm not hungry.”

     “You're going to eat, all the same. Six barrels of wine, indeed. You've slept most of the day.”

     “Leave me alone. I think I'm going to die.”

     “You are _not_ going to die. But if you need to be sick, do it in the washroom. I'll wait.”

     Adam heaved himself onto all fours. Sometimes it was easier to move like the Beast he was than the man he had been. He tottered through to the washroom, where he was gloriously sick in the toilet. _Oh, God_. His fur felt matted and filthy, and the sluggish panic that always coursed through him burst out into a cold sweat. For a moment he lay with his head on the marble floor, whimpering. Six barrels of wine. They had been large ones, too. That much wine would have killed a man, but he was no man, not anymore. Not for a long time now.

     Before, Adam would have seen a hangover off with a strong coffee and a huge dish of eggs and bacon. He would have taken a long bath in hot water, dressed in clean linens, and taken himself for a walk in the fresh air. Now he lay on the washroom floor, disinclined to do anything. What was the point? He was a monstrous Beast, and the rose had only a handful of petals left.

     “Come on, master, come have your breakfast.” Mrs. Potts's voice was gentler now, calling to him. “It will help.”

 _Nothing will help_ , Adam wanted to snarl at her. _You are all going to die and it will be all my fault and what will I do without you?_

     “Why can't you just leave me alone?” he grumbled, tottering back into the bedroom, his claws clacking on the marble floors.

     “Because I'm counting on you,” Mrs. Potts replied. She looked at him and sighed. Adam had once been the most beautiful young man in France. Now look at him. Her poor boy, he really was a mess. The filthy banyan that he refused to give up gave him a feral look, and she was sure he stank. When had he last had a bath? Adam's eyes were bleary and bloodshot, full of misery and self-loathing. He knelt at the bottom of her trolley, humming his misery under his breath. Mrs. Potts sighed again. “Come along, then. Cuisinier made you bacon and eggs. The least you can do is eat them.”

     Adam reached up and slid the tray off of the trolley, wincing at the scraping noise and the clang as he set it on the floor. He ate like an animal, head to the tray, trying not to notice how good the breakfast was, all salty bacon and fluffy scrambled eggs, sweet baked beans and buttery fried bread. An English breakfast. Adam did not let himself enjoy anything. If he let himself enjoy it, he would be lost. If he let himself remember the beauty of the world, he would go mad.

     “You shouldn't count on me,” he said when he was finished, not looking at Mrs. Potts. “You'll only be disappointed.”

     “Nonsense,” Mrs. Potts said briskly. “I have perfect faith in you. One of these days a lady will come here, and you'll break the curse and free us all. Now go take a bath; you'll feel better for it.”

     Adam went outside instead, out into the snowy garden. He could weep in peace outside, where the staff's eternal hope could not touch him.

*

     There was a storm brewing. Adam could sense it, the pressure lying heavy on his aching head, as he sat in the rose-covered colonnade that had been his mother's pride and joy. The rose trees were the only plants to have survived the Enchantress's curse, blossoming despite the never-ending snow. Roses, roses everywhere. Damned for a rose. Adam sat on the bench, looking at nothing.

     When he had first discovered the colonnade, a few weeks after being cursed, Adam had wept to see the roses. It was his one true refuge, for none of the staff ever followed him there, and the one place of beauty left in this awful winter. He could talk to his mother here without fear of anyone hearing.

     “I drank six barrels of wine, mama,” he said to the stillness. “And still Mrs. Potts thinks that I can break this curse.”

 _Doesn't she see?_ Couldn't any of them _see_ that Adam will never be able to break the curse? It was not that no one had chanced upon the castle since the Enchantress left them in eternal winter. Travelers lost in the woods had, on occasion, sought shelter in the castle overnight. The staff had even tended to them, careful not to be seen as animate, and Adam had hid himself for the duration of the visit. Once or twice a visitor had even been female. But they never cared to stay, never did more than eat and sleep and hurry away from the ruin they assumed to be haunted, and each time Adam berated himself for not having the courage to step forward, to play the gracious host. He couldn't bear the thought of their horror, their fear.

 _Six barrels of wine_...

     Mrs. Potts was right about one thing: Adam had slept most of the day away, passed out in a drunken stupor. Dusk fell as he sat in the colonnade, breathing in the cold, heavy air. Far away, thunder rumbled. It would rain in the village that night, he thought, and a gust of wistfulness passed through him. Adam loved rain and thunder. There was nothing nicer than being inside on a stormy night, snug in bed with a book and a mug of tea. Even the elaborate parties he had once thrown paled in comparison. But it never rained here. Snowed, yes, it was hardly the same thing. Still. He would need to tie up some of the roses before the wind could tear them down, and since he had forbidden the staff to come into the colonnade, Adam would have to do it himself. He didn't mind. Perhaps the exercise would help clear the pain from his head.

     It was as Adam stood atop the stone wall that he first saw the man riding into the grounds. He froze, standing as still as one of the stone creatures next to him. The man paid him no mind, riding directly towards the castle and the stable under the stone steps. Well, Mrs. Potts would attend him. Adam was in no mood to entertain visitors. It was only a man anyway.

 _A man who might have a daughter_ , his treacherous heart whispered. Adam batted the thought away.

     Not ten minutes later, the man came flying out of the castle. Adam stared; this was a first. Had Mrs. Potts let her boy serve him? If anyone would accidentally give away the presence of enchanted servants, it was young Chip. The man found his horse and began to ride away-and stopped. Adam watched in consternation and dawning horror as he rode towards the rose colonnade and dismounted.

     “I promised Belle a rose,” the old man said to himself.

 _Who is Belle?_ Adam wondered. Then curiosity turned to disbelief as the man reached out and plucked one of the white roses from the arbor. _These are my_ _ **mother's**_ _roses!_ With a roar of outrage, he leaped from the top of the colonnade down to the ground, bowling the stranger over backwards.

     “Thief!” Adam shouted, looming over the old man. “ _Thief!_ ”

     “Please, I didn't mean-” the man stammered, terror filling his face. Horror, at Adam standing there above him. Disgust, at the beastliness of the creature. And something inside of Adam snapped. It was suddenly too much, the theft of the rose, the lingering pain in his head, the fear and repugnance in the man's face. Adam found himself snatching at the man, dragging him upright. Pain and outrage clouded his senses and he dragged the thief inside, passed the protesting servants and up to the tower dungeon. The man's pleas fell on deaf ears.

     “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't realize-”

     Adam slammed the cell door shut and stormed away. _What are you doing?_ something inside him shrieked, but he ignored it and thundered his way back to his bedroom. Only then did he collapse to the floor in a panic, trying to breathe around the pain in his chest. _What have I done? What am I supposed to do with a prisoner?_

     He hated himself for knowing that his father would approve.

 

 

 

Author's Note: The combination of a hangover, a curse, and an Irrational Emotional Response will lead most people to do stupid things. Adam has no idea what he's just let himself in for. Thanks for reading, and I hope you like the chapter! Please let me know in the comments. :-)

 


	3. Parley

**Chapter Three: Parlay**

 

     Belle woke early to the sound of rain pattering down on the roof. For a moment she lay warm and comfortable, basking in the warmth of her bed, and then she leaped awake, halfway across the room without realizing it. The laundry! The laundry that she had left to dry at the lavarie! Damnation!

     Belle flew into her clothes and down the stairs, cursing under her breath. Where were her shoes? The rain sounded like it had been going for quite some time; the laundry would be ruined _again_ and she would have to do it _a third time,_ and this time there would be no Agathe to help! Oh, where were her _shoes_! Under the kitchen table, where she had left them last night. Belle ran to the door and wrenched it open, hating Villeneuve and the rain and the entire world, and slid to a halt with a gasp.

     Her basket of laundry sat on the doorstep, protected by the overhang, perfectly dry and neatly folded.

     Dumbfounded, Belle stared at it for a long moment, then looked up and down the lane. In the rainy pre-dawn light, no one was around. She looked at the basket again. Who on earth had brought it home?

     Belle picked the basket up and rifled through it. Everything seemed to be there, shirts, smallclothes, stockings, sheets and linens. What was more, it all smelled of sunshine and lavender, as though it had spent a hot day drying in the sun, not a night out in the damp. Belle thanked whoever had done it from the bottom of her heart. Perhaps she had a friend beside Agathe and Père Robert here, after all.

     There was no point in returning to bed now, in any case; she was wide awake. Belle set the laundry basket down and set about making herself breakfast. A thick slice of bread spread with butter and cherry jam; a cup of very hot, very strong coffee flavored with a little milk; a couple of white peaches. Belle had gotten into the habit, in Rouen, of eating a boiled egg mid-morning; this she boiled up and set in a bowl on the table, for later. Belle settled at the table and made her leisurely way through her breakfast. There was work to be done today, though the rain made it difficult. The garden needed weeding, the greens needed harvesting, and of course there was the laundry to put away. There were half a dozen clocks to finish, too, down in the workshop, and she could get a start on painting scenes onto the lids of the little music boxes, as well. And let's see, she would make a quiche for lunch, with spinach and herbs from the garden, and a chicken and sausage cassoulet to share with Papa for dinner. He was always hungry after traveling to the big market in Tannes. Maybe she would get some sweet rolls from the baker, for dessert. Yes, that would be a nice treat. And she would not tell Maurice about the incident at the lavarie yesterday. It would only upset him.

     Belle tidied away the breakfast things and changed her sandals for boots. Best to get on with the gardening. The rain had tapered off as she ate, though fog hung low over the village and the hills. Belle took her basket and shears and walked down to the beloved little space. The garden had been a shambles when they first arrived in Villeneuve, having gone to seed after its previous owner died. Belle had taken it on and gotten it in hand, planting beans and tomatoes and lettuces, peppers and onions and carrots. The tree in the middle of the garden bore juicy pink apples, and herbs such as sage and basil grew rampant along the borders. It pleased Belle to be able to save the money on vegetables. Those few extra pennies could be put aside for luxuries like books and drawing paper.

     It was as Belle was clipping more chard for that evening's cassoulet that she heard the clatter of hooves against the cobbles. She looked up just as Philippe, windswept and dirty, cantered down the lane and came to a stop at the front of the house, nose immediately going to his water bucket. Philippe, with broken and trailing reins, no cart, and no Papa. Belle dropped her sheers and flew from the garden towards him.

     “Philippe! Where's Papa?” she seized the horse's harness, as though she could force him to speak. “Take me to him!”

     The horse whuffed at her, as though exasperated. Belle left him slurping water and catapulted into the house. She would need her cloak, and her rucksack, and her emergency medical gear. The rucksack was at the bottom of her wardrobe, the sack with bandages and salves in the kitchen. Belle shoved in a candle and a tinder box, just in case, and hurried to wrap bread and cheese and a few apples into a lumpy bundle. She wrapped her cloak around her, slung the rucksack over the whole, and ran out of the house, locking the door behind her.

     Philippe, having drunk his fill, was busily eating hay as Belle ran down the steps towards him. He was not best pleased at being pulled away from his meal, but something of Belle's urgency caught him, and soon they were galloping out of town, out towards the north woods. Belle gave Philippe his head and let him take her back towards wherever he had come from. The horse made directly for the north woods. Belle frowned.

     There was nothing in the north woods; that was what everyone in the duchy agreed. Nothing but trees and wolves between here and Orléans. It was, after all, as several villagers had joked when Belle first inquired, called “the hidden heart of France”. The roads all led away from these woods, or around them; Belle had never been here. What had Papa been doing? Had he gotten lost? How?

     Then the trees closed over Belle's head and she did not wonder anymore.

     Philippe cantered on, only stopping to rest once or twice. Belle had long since lost all sense of direction when she felt the first chill in the air. The wind, heretofore warm and damp with rain, bit at her cheeks with winter's chill. Winter? But it was June! But there was snow up ahead, and the trees were dead. Belle stared around her as Philippe ran along, passing from summer to winter in a moment. What on earth _was_ this? She stopped short, staring: there was the cart, Papa's cart, overturned on the path before her, and there were his music boxes, scattered on the ground. Belle stared at them for a moment, heard racing. Papa was not here; onwards. Philippe took her down the path, out of the forest to a pair of ornate, ice-rimed gates set in a wall. Beyond lay formal gardens, half-blurred in the thickly falling snow. Beyond the gates and gardens lay a castle, all towers jutting towards the sky.

     What on earth? A _castle_? _Here_?

     The gates creaked open of their own accord and Belle urged Philippe through. The horse seemed reluctant, but carried Belle through the formal gardens towards the castle, following what was obviously a carriage path to the front steps. And there he stopped and refused to go a step further.

     “Thank you, Philippe,” Belle said, sliding off of his back. She took an apple from her rucksack and fed it to him. “Good boy. Stay here, now. I'll come back.”

     The castle loomed over Belle, and she stared up at it in disbelief. A _castle_ , not an hour's ride from Villeneuve. An honest-to-God medieval castle, with modern bits tacked onto the base of the turrets, and grandiose baroque carvings on the rails leading up to the front door. Belle walked up the steps to the terrace, frowning. She felt as though a thousand eyes were watching her advance, wondering who this scrubby little villager was who dared to intrude upon it. Snowflakes fell in her face, driven by a cold wind, and suddenly, Belle was furious. If Philippe had led her here, than this was where Maurice was, and Belle was certain that he would not have stayed in such an accursed place as this if he could reasonably leave it. She looked about herself and picked up a good sized stick. There. She would cosh any would-be attackers if they were trying to hurt her father.

     Belle approached the great front doors with caution, and no small amount of trepidation. The latch lifted with ease, and though the door creaked as it opened, she could tell that it was not out of use. She left it open behind her and advanced into the castle.

     There was something fantastically eerie about the place. Daylight spilled into the open front hall, illuminating dusty marble floors and rows of columns ornamented with fine stonework garlands. There was no one about, no noise of any kind, no sign of life. Belle peered around herself, heart hammering. Doors to the left and right of the grand staircase led off to further wings and chambers. Where to go? Up or sideways? A soft sound caught Belle's ear, as though of someone whispering. She strained to hear it.

     “-break the spell!” the whisper said.

     “Who said that?” Belle demanded, her voice ringing out in the silence, swinging around towards the source of the whisper.

     There was no answer, no one there but a mantle clock and a lit candelabra, sitting on a little table before a cold fireplace. It certainly seemed that someone had recently been there; there were books and empty wine glasses strewn about on the tables and low couches, and someone had abandoned a game of solitaire on the marble floor. It looked as though a party had been interrupted and hurried off somewhere-but where? Belle walked slowly towards the clock and candlestick. It was almost as it...but, no, surely they couldn't have been...whispering?

     A harsh, wracking cough filled the air, coming from somewhere up above. Belle started and seized the candlestick, and ran up the grand staircase to the base of the towers. Left of right? The coughing continued. _Left_. Up and up Belle ran, the candles billowing in her speed but never going out. She did not think to wonder about that. Up and up she ran, following the sound of the hacking cough.

     “Papa?”

     “Belle!”

     She rounded the corner and came to a landing, one partially enclosed by an iron-grated door. Maurice huddled against it, leaping up as Belle appeared.

     “How did you find me?” he cried, catching her hands through the grate.

     Belle dropped both stick and candelabra and squeezed her father's hands. “Your hands are ice. We have to get you home.”

     “Belle! Belle, you must leave here at once,” Maurice's voice was low and urgent. “This castle is alive. Now _go before he finds you_!”

     “ _Who?_ ”

     A growl cut through the still air, and Belle leaped around. Stick, where was her stick? There. She seized it and looked around for the source of the noise. It was dark in the tower, the only light coming from a couple of candles set at random intervals and the candlestick she had taken from downstairs, and she peered into the gloom beyond, where a hole in the wall illuminated another tower above them.

     “Who's there?” she shouted. Better to attack than be attacked. “Who are you?”

     “Who are _you_?” countered the voice. It sounded less angry than threatened.

     “I've come for my father,” Belle replied, holding her stick at the ready. In the shadows she could just make out an immense shape, one with curved horns like some kind of medieval devil.

     The shape began to pace down the staircase towards her. “Your father,” he said, “is a thief.”

     “Liar!” Belle cried.

     The creature disappeared around a bend and reappeared a moment later, peering at her from the shadows. “He stole a rose.”

     “I asked for the rose,” Belle said. “Punish me, not him.”

     “No!” Maurice cried. “He means _forever_. Apparently that's what happens around here when you pick a flower.”

     Belle heard the asperity in his voice, and the fear, and looked up at the creature in the shadows in disbelief. What kind of unutterable nonsense was this? “A life sentence for a rose?”

     Whatever it was sprang from the opposite staircase to loom in front of Belle, still, she noted, keeping to the shadows. Belle leaped backwards, startled, and gripped her stick. She could just make out an enormous bulk wrapped in what looked like a tattered shroud, and those two curved horns. She could smell him, too, a rank animalistic smell like a dog who had gone unwashed for months.

     “I received eternal damnation for one; I'm only locking him away. Now, do you still wish to take your father's place?”

     Belle stared. “Come into the light.”

     The creature shrank back, humming in annoyance. All at once, Belle lost her temper. What sort of fairy tale was this, with the master of the castle skulking in the shadows? She seized the candlestick, still inexplicably burning, and advanced on the creature. He turned his face to her just as she pushed the candles forward. And what a face. Wiry brown fur covered high cheekbones and a leonine nose. It formed a thick beard around the creatures misshapen chin, shaggy and wild. His eyebrows drew together in consternation and his thin brown animal lips frowned around sharp fangs. Belle gasped and fell back.

     “Choose,” the Beast snarled at her.

     For a moment they faced off, girl and beast, and Belle realized that what made his gaze so terrible was that his eyes were human. No animal had ever had eyes like that.

     “Belle, I won't let you do this,” Maurice said, as though he were not the one standing in a cell. “I lost your mother; I will _not lose you_. Now go, go!” And he coughed again.

     That cough made up Belle's mind. “All right, Papa, I'll leave,” she said, plans racing through her brain. She turned back to the Beast. “I need a minute alone with him.”

     The creature sneered and turned away.

     “Are you so cold hearted that you won't allow a daughter to kiss her father goodbye? Forever can spare a minute,” she added, as he made no move to turn.

     That got him. The Beast turned and advanced on Belle, glaring, and just when she thought that he would raise an arm and hit her, he pulled a lever and the cell door swung up.

     “When this door closes, it will not open again,” he snapped.

     Fair enough. Belle charged into the cell and threw her arms around Maurice. He was sick; he needed to get home, out of this castle and the accursed winter. He was cold and shaking in her arms.

     “I should have been with you!” Belle turned him so that his back was to the door, where the Beast waited.

     “No, Belle, listen to me. It's all right.” Maurice put a hand to Belle's cheek, smiling. “Now go, live your life and forget me.”

     “Forget you? Everything I am is because of you!”

     Maurice smiled at that. “I love you, Belle.”

     Belle hugged him again, heart pounding. Now was the moment. “I love you, too, Papa. And I will escape, I promise.” And she shoved him out of the cell, hard, and slammed the door behind him.

     The Beast, standing there, looked aghast. “You took his place.”

     Belle stared at him; what an idiot. “He's my father.” She let contempt lace her voice.

     The Beast huffed. “He's a fool. And so are you.”

     And with that, he turned and hauled Maurice, gasping on the floor away. Belle flew to the far side of the cell, where an open window overlooked the sheer drop to the bottom of the tower.

     “Papa!” she cried. “Don't hurt him!”

     “I'll come back!” Maurice bellowed as the Beast threw him over one shoulder. “ _I promise!_ ”

     A door slammed far below. And then there was only silence.

 

 

Author's Note: So this was pretty much as in the movie verbatim, but some scenes cannot be skipped. Don't worry, we'll be back with some more original content soon. Please let me know what you think in the comments. I am an insecure writer girl and I love the feedback. Thanks!

 


	4. Lumiere

**Chapter Four: Lumiere**

 

     Hours passed. Belle sat on the tower floor, wrapped in her cloak, thinking. For the first hour she had panicked, pacing the cell and weeping a little. The second hour she cursed herself for a fool. She ought not to have shouted; she ought to have crept up to the tower, opened the door, and spirited Maurice away before the Beast had spotted them. Or if that was impossible, she ought to have just walked into the cell and closed the door on both of them, refusing to leave. Really, what could the Beast have done about that? She could have bullied him into giving them blankets; she could have tended to Maurice with the supplies in her rucksack.

     Thoughts of the rucksack pulled Belle's thoughts away from the _should have dones_. She was hungry, now that she thought about it. There was bread and cheese and apples in her bag. Belle sat on the cold floor and ate, and began to feel better. A plan, that was what she needed. She had seen no sign of the Beast since he had taken Maurice, and she believed him when he said that he would not open the door again. Belle chomped on her apple and bent her thoughts to him. Really, what was so special about a rose? Normal people did not react to flower-picking in such a melodramatic fashion. But then, the Beast was no normal person.

     A Beast in a castle, an hour outside of Villeneuve. Belle shook her head. It was like something from a book or play, brought to life. It was outrageous, and yet...He had looked horrified when she took Maurice's place. Why? What was wrong with her? Did he not like maidens? Tough luck, if so. For the time being, he was stuck with her.

     Now, how to get out of this tower?

     The door opened with a creak and a clunk. Belle leaped to her feet and seized the footstool that she had not been sitting on. Was it the Beast? But she hadn't heard him coming.

     “Forgive my intrusion, mademoiselle, but I have come to escort you to your room.”

     The voice was male, and held the musical accent of a Parisian. Belle had not heard that sort of accent in ages; this was the last place she would have expected it.

     “My room? But I thought-” she advanced on the door, looking for the speaker. There seemed to be nothing but a shadow on the floor.

     “Oh what, that _once this door closes it will not open again. Rawr_.” The speaker laughed. Belle, edging out of the cell, looked around and, seeing no one to match the shadow, up. And gasped at the candlestick hanging from the lever-the candlestick that she herself had carried up to the tower dungeon. A little man with candles for hands, hanging there with a smile on his bronze face. For a moment, all the air went out of her lungs. “I know, he gets so dramatic. Hello!”

     The candlestick let go of the lever and swung to the ground. Belle smashed the stool over his head and jumped away, shrieking.

     What fresh hell was this?

     For a moment the candlestick lay stunned. Then he sat up, shaking aside the shattered footstool, and smiled. “You are very strong. This is a great quality.”

     “What _are_ you? Belle demanded. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. The candlestick was brought up short.

     “...I am Lumiere,” he said, relighting his candles.

     “And...you can talk,” Belle said, even as part of her realized that this was the reason the candles hadn't gone out as she ran with them.

     “Well of course he can talk!” Belle whipped around; the mantle clock from that morning was hauling itself up the stairs towards them. “It's all he ever does. Now Lumiere, as head of this household I insist you put her back into her cell at once.”

     Belle flew back into the cell, looking for something to clobber with. Really, this was too much. First a castle, then a Beast, then a talking candlestick, and now a talking, moving mantle clock? She did not hear their argument, but ran out of the cell holding a metal pitcher, ready to do battle, and found them both waiting for her.

     “Ready, miss?” the candlestick asked. “Trust me,” he added in a whisper to the clock. The clock looked just as alarmed as Belle felt.

     Belle stared at them, heart pounding. _Magic, magic, magic_. She pulled in a deep breath and lowered the pitcher. “Where are we going?”

     “To your room,” the candlestick-Lumiere-said again, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “Come along, we will take the shortcut across the turrets. It will be easier if you carry me.”

     Belle took a deep breath and picked Lumiere up by the legs. They led her up the stairs and out of the tower to the battlements. The wind hit Belle so that she gasped. She had forgotten her cloak in the cell.

     “You are not to worry,” Lumiere said. “It will be fetched for you. We are at your service here, miss.”

     “Really? There are more of you?”

     Lumiere looked amused. “It is a castle, mademoiselle. We know how to attend to visitors.”

     “Really?” Belle said again, remembering the Beast.

     “You must forgive first impressions,” Lumiere said, seeing her face. “It is a funny place, this castle. I hope you are not too startled.”

     “Why would I be startled? I'm talking to a candle.”

     Lumiere huffed, the sarcasm passing by him without recognition. “ _Candelabrum_ , please! Enormous difference! But consider me at your service. The castle is your home now, so feel free to go anywhere you like.”

     “Except the West Wing,” the mantle clock, Cogsworth, said. Lumiere waved his candles at him, as though Belle were both blind and deaf. “Which we do not have,” Cogsworth added. And now they thought her stupid, to boot.

     “Why? What's in the West Wing?” Belle asked.

     Nothing! Storage space! Nothing at all that would interest her. The two servants stumbled over their excuses in their haste to assure her that there was _nothing at all_ of _any interest whatsoever_ in the West Wing. Belle did not believe them for a second. She looked across the turrets to the West Wing tower; it was a dull grey stone, half-decrepit and crumbling away. What made it so special that they wanted to keep her out of it?

     They passed from the battlements into another tower, walking through a plain wooden passage that Lumiere assured her was the staff corridor. Normally they would _never_ take her this way; she would learn her way through the regular castle corridors in no time. Belle was too full of consternation to tell him that she was not planning to be there long enough to learn to find her way around. Then Cogsworth pushed open a little door and led her out into a gorgeous gilded anteroom, all dusty windows and parquet floors. Lumiere leaped from Belle's hands, bouncing off of Cogsworth, who made a disgusted noise, and pushed open a door.

     “Welcome to your new home!” the candelabrum exclaimed. “It's modest, but comfortable.”

     Belle stood in the doorway and boggled. The bedroom they had led her to was exquisite, dusty mirrors alternating with dusty windows, its walls painted pale blue and decorated with more gilded gold mouldings. There a boat-sized canopy bed, a ceiling-high stove, a vanity table covered in gilt and glass ornaments, and an enormous wardrobe. A curtained alcove contained a comfortable-looking couch, where a lady could sit and take tea of an afternoon. A gilt and crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, dripping baubles. It was the daftest, most stunning thing Belle had ever seen. Modest, indeed. She doubted that Versailles had anything more lovely.

     “It's beautiful,” she said at last, seeing that they seemed to expect a response from her.

     “But of course, Master wanted you to have the finest suite in the castle,” Lumiere said.

     Somehow Belle doubted that. This thought was borne out when Lumiere cast himself down on the bed and raised a cloud of dust. The room was gorgeous, and dusty. It seemed to have been abandoned for years. The curiosity she had felt that morning, on approaching the castle, returned to Belle full force. What kind of a place was this? What had happened here?

     A fairy flew into the room, all white feathers and gracefully curved wings. Not a fairy-a flying feather duster.

     “Enchantée, mademoiselle,” she said in a Parisian accent like Lumiere's. She flew about the room, swishing her feathers at the mirrors. “Don't worry, I'll have this place spotless in no time.”

     Wonder began to replace fear as Belle watched the duster glide down into Lumiere's arms. They put their heads together and began to whisper, just low enough that Belle could not hear what they were saying. Something about “dangerous” and “kisses”. They seemed to be a couple. Belle felt herself softening in the face of their romance. What sort of a place was this, she wondered again.

     "Is everything here alive?” she asked, looking around. There was a set of brushes set out on the dressing table; she picked one up and examined it. “Hello, what's your name?”

     There were giggles behind her, and Cogsworth coughed. “That is a _hairbrush_ ,” he said, and Belle put it down, embarrassed. And jumped back, as the wardrobe leaped forward with a bellow.

     “Do not be alarmed, this is just your wardrobe!” Lumiere said, jumping off of the bed. “Meet Madame de Garderobe, a great singer.”

     “When she can stay awake,” Cogsworth added.

     Belle stood back and watched the three of them banter. Plumette flew to her shoulder and brushed her with one wing.

     “We are glad to have you here, mademoiselle,” she said in an undertone. “Do not mind Lumiere; he and Cogsworth may bicker, but they are the best of friends.”

     Belle opened her mouth to reply and found herself seized by the wardrobe, which pulled her forward with an exclamation.

     “A woman!” she cried, brushing gilded wooden hands over Belle's face. She seemed to be Italian. Was that possible? “Pretty eyes, proud face! A perfect canvas, yes. I will make you something worthy of a princess.”

     “I'm not a princess,” Belle said, amused and a little chagrined. Surely they could all see that she was a villager, dressed as she was in her simple blue skirts and jacket, her muddy old boots.

     But Madame de Garderobe, in her excitement, ignored Belle entirely. In a moment Belle found herself engulfed in streams of pink and red and purple ribbons, wads of silks. She was shunted into a pair of court panniers, corseted in satin, pulled in several directions at once as the wardrobe sang in delight. At one point she thought that there might even be a dog in the room-she could hear barking-but then Madame put an enormous wig over her hair and fell asleep, all at once.

     Lumiere herded Plumette and Cogsworth towards the door. “Subtle, understated, I love it! Au revoir!”

     And they left Belle alone in the finest suite in the castle, standing in a puddle of expensive fabrics.

     This day _really_ was not going as planned.

     Belle pulled the wig off and dropped it on the floor. Whatever idiot had invented panniers ought to be ridden out of town on a rail, she thought as she clambered out of the gown. Ridiculous invention.

     Still, Belle thought as she ran across to the window and wrenched it open. Silk was strong fabric, not easily broken. And Madame had left her with quite a lot of it. Belle stuck her head out of the window and looked down to the courtyard below. It was a two story drop to the ground, but there was a set of stairs nearby that would lead her around the castle and back to Philippe. Well, then, there was no time to waste. Belle turned back to the pile of silks and got to work.

 

 

Author's Note: Again we have a Nearly Verbatim Chapter. I am pleased to tell you that it's not going to be quite as Movie Novelization come the next few chapters. But as with before, some things are unavoidable. Please let me know what you think in the comments! And thank you for reading!

 


	5. Dinner

**Chapter Five: Dinner**

 

     To say that Adam was having a bad day would have been an understatement. Adam could not remember the last time he had made such a mess of things. Oh wait, he could: it was the night he taunted an enchantress and found himself turned into a monster. He sighed. Why, _why_ was he such an insufferable idiot?

     He had seen the girl's protesting father off the grounds and then shut himself in the West Wing. He had locked the bedroom door and, for good measure, blocked off the door to the service corridor with a table. This had not stopped Mrs. Potts from trying to get in. Adam sat curled in his nest, trying to breathe through the panic in his chest, listening to her ram the tea trolley against the door, again and again. The table moved a little, but not enough for the door to fully open.

     “I know you're in there!” she shouted through the crack in the door she had managed to make. “ _What_ in heaven's name were you _thinking_? Prince Adam! Open this door at once.”

     “Don't call me Adam,” he snarled. His name was another thing that he had forbidden. Monsters did not deserve names, and he was a monster. A _monster_. He had just locked up the one woman he had met in a decade, for a rose. A _rose_. Oh, he was a fool.

     “There is a _girl_ in the tower cell!” Mrs. Potts sounded exasperated. “And _you_ put her there!”

     “She put her _self_ there.”

     “Because you locked her father up! Really, master, I know you weren't feeling well, but don't you think that was a _bit_ of an overreaction?”

     Adam snorted. 'Overreaction' was his middle name, he was sure of it. It was probably in there somewhere between Alexander and Thomas. Also Selfish. Disappointing. Weak. Unlovable. Adam Alexander Overreaction Selfish Disappointing Weak Unlovable Thomas Xavier Edmond de Courcy.

     Mrs. Potts sighed. “How are you going to make it better?”

     How could he _possibly_ make this better? “I'm not.”

     “You have a real chance here, master, even if you don't see it.”

     “Please-please stop-”

     Mrs. Potts was silent for a long moment. Then, in a gentler tone, “Are you breathing? Deep breaths, now.”

     Adam put his head between his knees and forced himself to gasp around his iron lungs. In, out. In out. Calm, now. Breathe. He broke out again into a cold sweat, and shuddered. Why? Why couldn't they just leave him.

     “Ad-Master? Are you breathing?”

     “Y-yes,” he managed.

     “Good. You concentrate on that, then, and leave the rest to me. We'll get through this, never you worry.”

     Adam growled a laugh. _Never you worry_. When would they stop hoping?

*

     Never. He realized that when he came down to dinner that night (having decided to brazen this one out with a devil-may-care attitude) and found a second place set across from him at the table. For a moment Adam rested his hands against the table, contemplating the second setting. He could accept his servants' meddling, or he could not.

     He opted to not.

     “ _Lumiere!_ ” Adam swept the plates off of the table and felt better for it. He stormed through into the kitchen. Lumiere and Cogsworth stood on the kitchen table, guilt written all over their faces. As Adam advanced, Cogsworth ducked behind Lumiere. This only made Adam angrier; as if he would hurt them.

     “You're _making her dinner_?”

     “We...thought you would enjoy the company,” Lumiere replied.

     “Master, I just want to assure you that I had no part in this hopeless plan,” Cogsworth said. “Preparing dinner, designing a gown for her, giving her a suite in the East Wing-”

     Adam gave a hapless growl. “You gave her a _bedroom_?”

     “No, _he_ gave her a bedroom!” snapped Cogsworth, gesturing at Lumiere.

     “This is true,” Lumiere conceded. “But if this girl is the one who can break the spell, maybe you can start by using dinner to charm her. Good thinking, Cogsworth!”

     Oh for God's sake. Adam glared at them. “That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard of. _'Charm the prisoner-'_ ”

     “But you must try, master,” Lumiere said, his voice suddenly serious enough to bring Adam up short. “With every passing day we become less human.”

     Guilt stabbed Adam anew. “She's the daughter of a common thief,” he hazarded. “What kind of a person do you think that makes _her_?”

     Mrs. Potts, heretofore watching from her trolley by the stove, gave him a narrow look. “Oh, you can't judge people by who their father is, now, can you?”

     Adam glowered at her, knowing the battle was lost. In that moment he wasn't sure who he hated more, Lumiere for hoping, Cogsworth for being hopeless, or Mrs. Potts for being entirely right, all the time, about everything. He took as deep a breath as he could manage, and looked again at Lumiere.

     “Did you invite her to dinner?”

     “No, I leave that to you as host,” Lumiere replied.

 _Host._ Adam felt his hackles rising again. He wasn't a host, he was a monster, and a fool, and the unwilling carrier of everyone's misplaced hopes. And they would be disappointed. Again.

     “So, what, I'm supposed to go upstairs and just _ask her to dinner_?”

     “Yes,” Lumiere said.

     For a moment they faced off, Beast and candelabra, and then Adam sighed. He had never been able to say no to Lumiere, not when it really mattered, anymore than he was able to say no to Mrs. Potts with any real effect.

     “We will come with you.” The voice was Plumette's, floating near his shoulder. Adam looked at her, startled; he hadn't noticed her there at all. “Courage, master, it is only dinner. You've had dinner with ladies before.”

     Adam sighed, a memory of Plumette shooing said ladies from his bedroom after a wild night passing through him. “Fine.”

     He turned and stormed out of the kitchen, not really expecting them to follow. Fear coursed through him, and regret that he hadn't just thrown both thief and daughter out of his castle when he had the chance. Damn his pride. Feeling more put upon with every step, Adam strode up to the East Wing, Lumiere and Cogsworth keeping pace just behind him. He felt sick with fear. Of course the girl would say no. A surge of anger coursed through Adam, his usual reaction to fear. He would preempt her refusal by simply not allowing it. That was the best way.

     The maids had been hard at work in the antechamber to the Flower Suite; it shone free of dust, the candles all lit. Adam came to a stop before the door to the bedroom and hammered at it.

     “You will join me for dinner. That's not a request,” he boomed.

     “Gently, master, the girl lost her father and her freedom in one day,” cautioned Mrs. Potts.

     “Yes, the poor thing is probably in there, scared to death,” Lumiere agreed. He had decided not to mention that she had coshed him with a stool earlier.

     Adam took a deep breath, grimaced, and tried again. The door shuddered under his fist, try as he might to be gentle.

     “Just a minute!” came a faint voice.

     “There she is!” Lumiere cried. “Now remember, be gentle.”

     “Kind,” Mrs. Potts added.

     “Charming,” Plumette said.

     “Sweet?” offered Cogsworth.

     Adam boggled at them. They knew well enough that he was none of those things, not really, not even when he wanted to be. Kindness, gentleness, sweetness...he had not allowed himself to be those things in decades.

     “And when she comes to the door, give her a dashing, debonair smile,” Lumiere said. “Come, come, show me the smile.”

 _They are counting on me_. Adam tried to smile, his mouth unfamiliar with the sensation. The staff recoiled as one, gasping. Horrified. Adam's face fell and he turned back to the door. Away from them.

     “Will you join me for dinner?” he asked in as charming a voice as he could muster.

     The girl must have been standing directly behind the door. “You've taken me as your prisoner and now you want to have _dinner_ with me? Are you insane?”

     All of the air went out of Adam's lungs. She was right, of course. He could feel the staff's eyes on him, feel the weight of all their hope. “It would give me...great pleasure if you would join me for dinner. Please.”

     “No.”

     Adam closed his eyes. _I will not lose my temper, I will not-_ twenty years' worth of bad habits were not going to let him back down now. The indignity of the situation was suddenly too much. He was a monster, cursed, and the staff were all going to die because of him, and he couldn't even ask a villager to eat with him, couldn't let her father take a rose home to her, couldn't send her home. Anger and self-loathing coursed through Adam, and he directed it at her.

     “I told you to join me for dinner!” he screeched, pounding on the door.

     “And I told you no!” the girl shouted back. “I'd _starve_ before I ever ate with you!”

     “Well be my guest!” Adam bellowed. “Go ahead and starve.” He whirled on his servants, cowering behind him. “If she doesn't eat with me, then she doesn't eat at all! Idiots!”

     And he stormed away, shaking with fury and wounded pride, back to the West Wing. It was safer there, away from the staff and their insufferable hope. Adam slammed his way back to his room, not minding the furniture in his way. What was one more broken chair? He knocked over a tall wooden candle holder, imagining for a second that it was Lumiere, with his meddling and his ideas and his need to be human. The iron band around his lungs tightened; they were all going to die and it would be all his fault.

 _Why_ had the Enchantress needed to curse them, too?

     Unable to breathe around the panic, Adam stalked towards the balcony. The windows had been the first thing to go when the petals began to fall, and the wintergarden was full of snow. The plinth with the rose stood there, glowing in the moonlight. Adam looked at it, and at the mirror that the Enchantress had left him with, to see the outside world. He rarely used it anymore. Still.

     “Show me the girl.”

     His own monstrous reflection rippled, replaced with the girl's image. She was as beautiful as Adam remembered from that morning, though not in any way he would have valued before. And she was curled up on her bedroom floor, arms wrapped around her knees, looking very close to tears.

     Adam put the mirror down and looked at the rose. He had done this. He had ruined this girl's life. _I'm a monster_. He didn't even know her name.

     A petal fell. The castle shook as it crumbled. Adam went out on the balcony and looked nothing. _I will do better tomorrow_.

     He tried to remember how to breathe.

 

 

Author's Note: If you've read my shorter fic "The Iron Band", you'll know that I've given Adam anxiety. If he didn't have it before the curse, he definitely has it now. Poor guy. Thanks for reading this far, and as always, please let me know what you think in the comments!

 


	6. Curiosity

**Chapter Six: Curiosity**

 

     Belle did not spend much time cowering on the floor. _Go ahead and starve_ , indeed. It would serve him right if she went in search of the kitchens. She was certain she could get Lumiere to feed her; he seemed to operate so entirely without the Beast's permission. Still, there was work to be done.

     Belle had not been idle in the hours since the staff had left her alone in the East Wing. There had been an hour or two where she had pretended to be making herself a frock, while an army of flying feather dusters had swept and mopped and dusted, changed the bed linen, and lit the candles. It hadn't been hard to sit on the floor and fuss with the fabric that Madame de Garderobe had thrown at her; there had been whole yards of gold-tasseled trimming that Belle had cut up to strengthen the rope she was weaving. The question was whether to tie one end of the rope to the bedpost and hope that it held her weight, or to make a double-length of rope and use it to rappel down to the ground.

     Or she could open the door, walk downstairs, and leave through the front door. She remembered seeing a coat rack or hat stand of some sort down by the door; if worst came to worse she could use it to hit the Beast, should he try and stop her. Unless it was one of the cursed servants, of course. That could be awkward.

     In the end there wasn't enough silk to make a double-length rope. Belle guessed that she would be able to get most of the way down the tower and drop the last few feet. She leaned as far out of the window as she dared, trying to judge the distance. Worry niggled at her, that her arms wouldn't be strong enough to climb all of the way down without giving out.

     A knock sounded at the door. Belle pulled her head back inside and looked around.

     “I told you to go away!”

     But it was a woman's voice that replied. “Don't worry, dear, it's only Mrs. Potts!”

     Belle hesitated, then shoved the rope to one side, kicking it away from view of the door. It wouldn't do to be caught out now, when she was so close.

     “Come in,” she called.

     The doors swung open, and a tea trolley pushed by an invisible hand rolled through. Belle wondered if it, too, was alive. There was a tea service set on it, and Belle was only a little bit shocked when the teapot moved and spoke.

     “Oh, oh aren't you a vision? How lovely to make your acquaintance,” Mrs. Potts said. She seemed to be English; Belle recognized that accent. The teapot did not quail under Belle's stern look, though the teacup beside her edged behind her spout. She was also observant: her painted gold eyes went straight to the satin rope hanging out of the open window. “It's a very long journey. Let me fix you up before you go. I have found that most troubles seem less troubling after a bracing cup of tea.”

     Belle felt herself softening in the face of this. “Thank you.”

     Mrs. Potts smiled and shifted to pour tea into the little teacup. It sprang off the trolley, saucer and all, and bounded across the floor towards Belle, not seeming to heed its mother's admonition to be careful. Belle bent and caught him in her hands, noting that he hadn't spilled a drop of the hot, strong tea. But how to drink tea from a living teacup, when his handle seemed to be his nose? She held him by the saucer, and cautiously took a sip.

     The teacup giggled. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, in a child's lilting voice. “I'm Chip. Wanna see me do a trick?”

     He began to bubble, the tea roiling, until finally one popped. Belle grinned, amazement and curiosity warring inside her. This was a child. What was happening here?

     “What is going on here?” she asked. “This castle is like a story. Are you all under an enchantment?”

     Chip bounded around on his saucer. “She's figured it out! She's very smart, Mama.”

     “Yes, she is indeed,” Mrs. Potts said. But she ignored Belle's question. “That was a very brave thing you did for your father, dearie.”

     “Yes,” said Madame de Garderobe, awakened by the conversation. “We all think so.”

     Belle sighed and set Chip back on the trolley. “I'm worried about him. He's never been on his own.”

     “Cheer up, my poppet, things will turn out all right in the end. You'll feel a lot better after dinner.”

     “But...he said 'if she doesn't eat with me, she doesn't eat at all'.” Was Mrs. Potts going to break the Beast's orders as flagrantly as Lumiere had that afternoon?

     “People say a lot of things in anger,” Mrs. Potts replied. “It is our choice whether or not to listen. Are you coming, poppet?” she added, rolling towards the door.

     “Go,” said Madame de Garderobe, her doors widening in what Belle realized was a smile.

     Still, she hesitated. “Will he be there?”

     “No, he's hiding because he's embarrassed,” Chip said. “And his feelings got hurt.”

     “Chip!” exclaimed Mrs. Potts.

     “Well they are! He was really trying until nobody liked his smile,” the little teacup said. “He tried to smile for you, miss, but everyone got scared. I liked his smile. It was nice. At least he _tried_.”

     Belle felt a stab of guilt, even as disbelief washed over her. He had tried to _smile_? But he had been such a bully when he came to the door. Could beasts even smile?

     Mrs. Potts seemed to be as nonplussed as Belle was. “Yes, well, come along,” she said at last. “We probably won't see him again tonight.”

     Or ever again, then, Belle thought as she followed the trolley downstairs. She would eat dinner, and then walk straight out the front door and go home.

     It became evident, as she walked downstairs, that the entire staff had chosen to disregard the Beast's orders. The front hall was still dusty and disused, but the dining room was awash with candlelight and smelled of fresh polish. A harpsichord stood aside for her as she entered the room, and Lumiere jumped onto the table as the hat rack doused the candles. Evidently they had prepared a show for her.

     “Ma chere mademoiselle, it is with deepest pride and greatest pleasure that we welcome you tonight,” Lumiere said, standing in a spot of light. “And now we invite you to relax, let us pull up a chair, as the dining room proudly presents...your dinner!”

     Something knocked Belle's knees from under her; she fell into a cushioned chair with a thump and a gasp. Lumiere and the hatstand, Chapeau, presented dish after dish to her, and Belle realized just how hungry she was with every plate. There was only one problem: they wouldn't let her eat. Lumiere seemed hellbent on serenading her, and after a handful of verses, Belle gave up and simply watched. The entire staff had turned out, over the moon with delight at her presence, and Belle gathered that they had been lonely and listless for quite a long time. She wondered if they had ever performed for the Beast, and decided that they hadn't. Why else would they be going so out of their way now, if they had?

     But all shows must come to an end, and finally Belle found herself presented with the beef ragout and cheese soufflé, the hor d'ouvres and soups and puddings that they had shown her before. And Lumiere was right: the meal was delicious. Belle ate her fill, and helped herself to the tiny cake that Lumiere offered her for dessert. It was light and sugary, the sort of delicate treat only the richest of ladies could afford with any regularity. Belle savoured it, bit by bit, until every last morsel was gone.

     “I don't understand why you're all being so kind to me,” she said to Mrs. Potts later, as the teapot escorted her to the grand staircase. “Surely you're as trapped here as I am. Don't you ever want to escape?”

     Mrs. Potts smiled. “The master isn't as terrible as he appears. Somewhere, deep in his soul, there's a prince-of a fellow, just waiting to be set free.”

     Belle considered this. That the castle and its inhabitants was under a curse had been made very clear to her at dinner. Why else would regular household objects know what it was to serve a grand household in a human capacity. Too long we've been rusting, Lumiere had said. And also-

     “Lumiere mentioned something about the West Wing.”

     “Never you mind about that,” Mrs. Potts said. “Off to bed with you, now, poppet.”

     “Good night,” Belle said. She turned and began to climb the stairs, moving slowly as the tea trolley rolled away. At the landing she sneaked a look back at Mrs. Potts. The teapot was still watching her.

     “Straight to bed,” she said, before vanishing somewhere deeper into the castle.

     Belle saw her opportunity and seized it. She turned right at the landing, towards the West Wing, and hurried up the staircase into the wing adjacent to the tower she had found Maurice in that morning.

     It was immediately apparent that this side of the castle suffered far more from disrepair than the other. Whole walls were missing, and on one staircase, Belle hugged the wall to avoid falling over the crumbling edge to the ruins below. What sort of curse was it that destroyed a castle? Belle felt that she had lived years since that morning, when her most pressing concern was the laundry. She had always had a healthy sense of romance, a deep love of stories of curses and magic and the noble, bright worlds of legend and fairy story. But she had never imagined that such things could exist in real life. _A prince of a fellow_ , Mrs. Potts had said about the Beast. That monster? Surely not. One of the fae, maybe. It would be so easy to turn and leave now, but some deep curiosity compelled Belle on, guiding her footsteps upwards, following the line of candles to the West Wing tower.

     The passage eventually ended in a pair of ornate doors, twice the size of Belle herself and firmly closed. She pushed them open. There had been no sign of the Beast so far, and if she did come across him, she would claim that she was lost. After all, if she was supposed to stay forever then he could hardly protest her exploring her new home.

     But this room was his bedroom. Belle paused in the doorway, taking in the scope of the place. It was magnificent. Or rather, it would have been, had it been cleaner. Candles guttered in a bank like something in a cathedral; a desk covered in papers stood opposite the door. It was a deep room, really two rooms in one, that ended in a glassed-in balcony that was half ruined and covered in snow. Had he done that? Belle advanced, cautious. Something to the left caught her eye-a person? She started and looked again, but it was only a portrait. Belle looked closer, her heart beginning to pound.

     There were three people in the picture, a man, a woman, and a child. A family. But the father's face was obliterated, and so was the boy's, scratched and torn by angry claws. Only the lady stood untouched, smiling down on Belle as though pleased to see her. Belle looked closer at the boy. His eyes were a stunning blue, the color of the summer sky. Where had she seen eyes like that before?

     What a strange place this was. Belle advanced further into the room, taking in the enormous bed with its dusty velvet hangings, the fireplace big enough to roast an ox, the shattered mirrors on every wall. There was a nest of sorts on the floor, made up of shredded cushions and tattered linens and, for some reason, antlers. A chill passed through Belle as she took it in. What kind of creature slept in such a bed?

     Belle turned and walked away from it. She would walk to the end of the balcony, she decided, and if she could find no clues about the nature of this curse, she would leave. It was late; surely the staff and their master had to sleep sometime. She could easily find Philippe and leave then.

     Still, it was an adventure, and Belle had never been one to leave a puzzle unsolved.

     She walked towards the balcony, careful to look around her and take in as much as she could. It grew colder as she approached the winter garden; she shivered again. But there was something there-an enormous marble plinth, with a glass bell jar atop it. And in that bell jar was...a rose. A rose suspended in mid-air, supported by nothing that Belle could see, with a blanket of dead petals littered at its stem. It seemed to have only a handful of petals left. Belle bent closer. What sort of magic was this?

     The Beast crashed into the room, his filthy old cloak swirling around him. Belle leaped away from the rose. “What are you doing here? What did you do to it?” he shrieked, forcing her further back.

     “Nothing,” she said.

     “Do you realize what you could have done? You could have damned us all!” There was horror in the Beast's voice that Belle did not understand, even as she thought she might pee from fear. The Beast waved an arm at her and for a moment she thought he was going to kill her. “Get out of here! Go!”

     Belle turned and fled.

     The devil take this castle, if he hadn't already. Belle was finished. She tore out of the West Wing, back down the ruined staircases into the main part of the castle. Her heart wanted to leap out of her chest, but Belle did not stop. She was going, now, this minute, and she would go out the front door.

     Lumiere hailed her from one of the balconies; he seemed to be playing chess with Cogsworth.

     “Mademoiselle! What are you doing?”

     “Getting out of here!” Belle snapped.

     “ _Stop!_ ”

     Cogsworth whistled and the doors and windows swung shut and locked. Lumiere, to Belle's horror, set the footstool dog on her; she could hear Mrs. Potts urging Frou-Frou on. So this was how they treated guests, eh? A guest only in name. Belle reached the bottom of the staircase, pleased to see that the dog thought they were playing a game. The doors may have been locked, but it was able to get out of its own little dog door. Belle followed, snatching her cloak from the hat rack as she went, barely hearing Lumiere's plea not to leave- _it's dangerous!_

     Out the dog door, across the terrace, and down the steps.

     “Philippe!” she bellowed.

     In the darkness, the horse raised his head. Left to his own devices all day, he had opted to stay near the little stable under the terrace stairs, munching on hay to his heart's content. Belle flung herself on his back and turned his head towards the gates.

     It was late, and dark, and so cold, but Belle's heart pounded so that she didn't even notice. They catapulted through the gates and into the forest beyond, following the path she had taken that morning. She would be home with Papa in an hour, castle, Beast, and servants be damned. Only something happened then that Belle had not expected. A howl rose into the air behind her, and greyish white shapes fell into step alongside Philippe.

     Wolves. An entire pack of them.

     Belle urged Philippe on; they would have to outrun them. Only the wolves had them surrounded; they were waiting in the path ahead. Philippe plunged to one side, down a side path and out onto a frozen pond. The wolves followed, snapping and biting. One leaped at Belle and forced her off of Philippe's back. Belle slid across the ice and grabbed up a fallen branch, one twice the size of her stick from that morning. She swung wildly at the wolves, relishing the solid smack of wood against hide. _Go away,_ _ **go away**_ _!_ Then one of them caught her branch between its teeth. A vicious tug-of-war ensued, and Belle gasped as the branch was wrenched out of her hands.

     For a moment there was silence as the wolves formed a loose ring around Belle. The pack leader, a brute missing one eye, crouched on the bank, ready to pounce. For a moment Belle stared at it. _I am about to die_.

     The wolf jumped.

 

 

Author's Note: One thing I really liked about 2017!Belle is how she so quickly puts two and two together about the castle. She's a much smarter cookie than her '91 counterpart, I do say. Please let me know what you think in the comments! I'm getting a lot of hits and that makes me happy, but I adore comments and love to interact with you guys. 

 


	7. Fight

**Chapter Seven: Fight**

 

     The girl's frantic footsteps faded from the West Wing. Adam buried his face in his hands. _Monster, monster_. His heart still pounded with leftover terror; for a moment the world had gone white in his terror that she would touch the rose and shake the petals free. He doubled over the plinth, gasping; for a second he wondered if he was going to faint. _Oh God, oh God_.

     “Master! She's gone! She's left!” Mrs. Potts sounded desperate. Adam, struggling to breathe, waved a hand at her.

     “Good. She should never have been here.”

     “Do you not understand me?” Mrs. Potts cried. “It's not about _that_! There are _wolves_ out there! Belle could _die_!”

     Wolves. The wolves that hemmed the castle grounds and kept its unlucky inhabitants inside. Adam's stomach turned to ice.

     “You're the only one of us who can do anything about this,” Mrs. Potts continued. “You have to save her! Adam, _please_ , you have to _do something_!”

     Adam drew in a deep breath, turned, and flew out of the room. Down the stairs he crashed, running flat out on all fours like the animal he was, passed Lumiere and Cogsworth and Chapeau, ignoring their shouts. Already he could hear the howls of the hunting pack, pinpointing Belle's location. Adam shot across the grounds and out through the gates. _Please, please, please_. If she died it would be on his hands. Adam followed the wolves' howls, veering off the path towards the village towards the frozen pond. Had they forced her to come this way? They were wily creatures, wolves; they had doubtless led her into a trap.

     All at once Adam burst upon the scene. Belle stood in the middle of the frozen pond, staring down the alpha. It jumped at her. Adam leaped forward and caught it in mid-air, and flung it away across the ice.

     The pack swarmed him. Unprepared, Adam fell under their snapping teeth and brute strength. One went for his throat; only his hand at the wolf's neck kept its teeth from their target. Another bit down on his leg; Adam howled in pain and outrage. Anger welled up in Adam; he was not going to die this way. He was a monster; he was stronger than this. He seized them both and flung them away from him, rolled to his feet.

     Then the alpha crashed down on Adam's shoulders, biting hard. The sensation of teeth and claws tearing into him was too much; Adam flung the wolf off and dropped to all fours and _roared_ at them, roared out his anger and dominance in a great scream. And the wolves fled.

     For a moment Adam stared after them, panting. Then he drew himself upright and turned to the girl, to Belle, as Mrs. Potts had called her. She stood beside her horse at the far edge of the ice, staring with wide eyes. Adam tottered; his throat was dry and the words he wanted to say-go on, get out of here, before they come back-would not come. Pain roared through him. All at once the adrenaline fuelling him vanished. Adam crashed down onto the ice rimed bank.

     Just a moment. He would rest here a moment, get his breath back before he returned to the castle. Oh God. He could smell the blood pooling on the ice; the places where the wolves had torn at him burned and throbbed. He tried to stand and found that he couldn't.

     Well, then. Hopefully he would be unconscious when the wolf pack returned and ate him.

     Uncertain footsteps approached him, and then the girl was draping her cape over Adam's shoulders. Adam opened his eyes and stared at her.

     “You have to help me,” Belle whispered, her eyes dark and serious. “You have to stand.”

     It was a peace-offering, that cape. It barely began to cover him, but Adam knew that that was not the point. Why hadn't she ridden away? Why was she helping him, when he had behaved so terribly to her? Adam stared, bewildered.

     “Come on, now,” Belle said, impatient now. She tapped his face with sharp fingers. “Don't go away again. You have to get up. Those wolves will be back.”

     Adam growled at her. Belle glowered back, tapping his face with those sharp fingers. “Look,” she snapped. “I'm scared, I'm tired, and frankly I am _very_ cross, and if you don't get up _this minute_ I shall do something you won't like at all.”

     Adam struggled upright. Anything to get those fingers out of his face.

     “Good, that's good,” Belle said, helping him to his feet. “Steady on, now. Lean on me. Philippe!”

     The horse, for whatever reason, had not bolted, but stood prancing at the edge of the pond. It watched Adam with frightened eyes, and he felt whatever was left of his heart crack a little. He had loved horses, before. Grief welled up inside, sharpened by the pain of his wounds, and Adam snarled. The horse-Philippe-shied away from them.

     “What were you thinking?” Belle snapped, exasperated, and let go of his arm. Adam fell to the ground.

     “ _Damn_ it!”

     “Damn yourself!” Belle replied and moved carefully towards the horse. “Come on, Philippe, he won't hurt you. We need your help, that's a good lad. Good, lad, that's right. Calm down.”

     She stroked the horse, murmuring gently to him. Adam sat bleeding in the snow. He wanted to cry from pain and frustration and anger. Why couldn't she just leave him to die?

     “Come on,” Belle said at last, and helped him stand upright again. Adam swayed and clutched at the saddle. He needed to get home. Absurdly, he wanted to see Mrs. Potts. He wanted Chapeau and Lumiere, even old Cogsworth, to be with him, to help him. Of course he could never let them know. Creatures, monsters, didn't deserve love. He had never deserved love even as a human; everyone had let him know that. His father had hated him, and the servants had turned their backs on him, leaving him all alone, even when they surrounded him. Adam's lungs constricted as he clambered onto Philippe's back. They turned their backs on him, and he turned his back on them, and now everything was terrible and he hated everyone.

     “It'll be all right,” Belle said, her voice gentler, as she led Philippe back towards the castle. “We're almost to the castle now.”

     The gates sprang open as they approached. Belle thanked them as they passed into the grounds. Adam stared at her.

     “You're thanking the gates now?”

     “It's called _courtesy_. It's something you seem to lack.”

     Adam's hackles rose against her. “It's their _job_ to open the gates!”

     “And saying _thank you_ is not a moral failing!” Belle snarled.

     Adam glared, but Belle ignored him as she marched them up the path towards the castle. Her back was stiff; she may have decided to help him, but she was not about to be kind. Adam supposed he deserved this.

     The entire staff met them at the castle doors, shouting in dismay. Belle and Chapeau help Adam slide off Philippe.

     “There were wolves,” Belle said, unnecessarily in Adam's opinion. “He came after me.”

     “Well, obviously,” he snarled at her. “I'm not in the habit of biting myself until I bleed.”

     Belle took his good arm and put it around her shoulders, propping him up as they moved inside. “For all I know, you could be. You're certainly bad tempered enough!”

     “ _Bad tempered_? We were almost just eaten by wolves! I have a right to be bad tempered!”

     “Well, you _don't_ have the right to take it out on me!”

     Adam growled again, but Belle ignored him. She is tiny under his arm, but strong. _Though she be but little, she is fierce_ , Adam found himself thinking. And she was nowhere near finished with him yet, not with that frown. Belle looked furious. Followed by the helpless staff, they made their way up to the West Wing, pausing every now and again for Adam to catch his breath. It was harder and harder for Adam to breathe; the bites and scratches along his arms and leg stung and burned, and panic seized his lungs. Would he be spared being eaten only to succumb to fever? Maybe it would be for the best, but then the staff-

     “It's all right, we're almost there,” Belle said.

     “I can't-I can't-” Adam gasped.

     “You can,” Belle said, not understanding, “Because I can't carry you and I refuse to let you faint on the staircase.”

     Slowly, slowly, they come to his bedroom in West Wing. Belle deposited him on the side of his long-unused bed, ignoring his gestures at the nest in the alcove.

     “Now,” she said, dusting off her hands. “Take your clothes off.”

     Adam was horrified. “ _No_.”

     Belle glared at him. “Those wounds need tending. I can't do that if you refuse to take off that shroud.”

     “It's not a shroud, it's a banyan! And Chapeau will take care of me.”

     “With respect to Monsieur Chapeau, he does not have hands like mine at the moment. Nor does Monsieur Cogsworth, or Lumiere, or Mrs. Potts. Take it off.”

     “No.”

     “I won't ask again.”

     Unsurprisingly, Adam was not used to being ordered about, certainly not by a peasant girl two feet shorter than himself, not even to one that he had saved from certain death and to which he owed his own life. He glared at her; he did not want to take his clothes off before this girl, to render himself even more vulnerable to her. Belle glared back, standing her ground. For a moment there was an impasse; Adam could almost feel the staff watching with bated breath. Then Belle reached out, and almost before Adam could react, ripped the remains of his filthy old banyan off of his shoulders.

     “I am _not_ having you die of a wolf bite, even if you are the worst grump I've ever had the misfortune to meet,” she snapped. “If you're going to be a baby about it, I'll undress you myself.”

     “I am not a baby!” Adam shouted.

     “You are _acting like a two year old!_ ” Belle shouted back. She seized hold of his shirt, which Adam hadn't bothered to change in months. It comes away like paper in her hands. The servants, huddled together at the foot of the bed, gasped. Adam yelled. Belle yelled back.

     “Lumiere, make her stop!” Adam shouted.

     “Don't you dare,” Belle told him. “Take off those trousers, they're ruined.”

     “I am _not_ taking my trousers off! _Lumiere!_ ”

     “Master,” his treacherous maitre d' said, “maybe you should listen to her.”

     Cogsworth coughed. “There's a blanket, miss, for modesty's sake.”

     Belle and Adam faced off. She was right, that was the worst of it. His wounds desperately needed attention. Adam wanted to cry from the pain and humiliation. For a moment he absolutely hatec Belle, and his staff, and the enchantress for damning them all and making Belle's presence a necessity. But common sense won out over Adam's offended pride and he struggled under the blankets and out of his tattered old breeches. He all but flung them in the girl's face.

     “Are you happy now?”

     Belle gave him a narrow look, one which plainly said, _I am not finished with you yet_. Adam sank back onto dusty pillows and watched as she turned to Mrs. Potts. He felt cold and sick and miserable, and wished that anyone but this strange young woman was taking care of him.

     “Is there a basin? I need to clean those wounds.”

     “Yes, miss, in the washroom. Through there. Chapeau, fetch the medicine chest, will you?” Mrs. Potts replied. Chapeau nodded and vanished, returning a few minutes later with the medicine chest. By that time, Belle had found a couple of cloths and a basin, and Mrs. Potts had filled it with steaming hot water. Belle rummaged through the chest and emerged with a pot of coarse salt and a jar of some reddish substance. She dumped it into the water. Adam winced; this was going to hurt.

      “Lie down on your side with your injured leg out from under the blanket,” Belle said. “Chapeau, can you please stand ready with the bandages? And Lumiere, that's honey there on the table; will you pass it to me?”

     “ _Honey_?” bellowed Adam. “What am I, a cake?”

     “It'll help keep the wounds from festering!” Belle bawled back. “Which, if they do, will in fact kill you. And I shall put 'Wouldn't take his medicine' on your headstone!”

     She twisted the soaked cloth between her hands, rather wishing it was his neck, and began to wash the blood off of Adam's leg. Adam yelled as the salt water stung him; he couldn't help it. Belle's hands were firm; she did not let him writhe away as she worked to clean the gashes. She pressed down on the sides of the wound until the blood began to flow again, cleaning it away with a succession of cloths. Adam felt like his leg has been dipped in oil and set on fire. He yelled again, but Belle, ignoring him, finished her ministrations and began to spread honey on the wound. She wrapped it in a clean bandage and have his good arm a pat.

     “There, almost done,” she said. Adam glares at her.

     “What, is my arm going to escape your tender ministrations?”

     Belle picked a new cloth out of the basin and twisted it with a vengeance. “Not at all. Roll over.”

     She cleaned his wounds with those firm strong hands, and Adam tried to hold back the cries that filled his throat. He couldn't tell her that her hands on him were almost more than he could bear. No one had touched him in nearly a decade, and he at once craved her touch and dreaded it. Belle had almost finished cleaning the scratched on his shoulder before it became too much and he twisted away, shouting.

     “ _That hurts!_ ” he roared.

     “If you'd hold still it wouldn't hurt as much!” Belle roared back.

     Adam huffed at her. “If you hadn't run away none of this would've happened!”

     Belle was not about to take that. “Well if you hadn't frightened me, I wouldn't have run away!”

     “Well, you shouldn't have been in the West Wing,” he snapped, trying to regain some lost ground.

     “Well _you_ should learn to control your temper!”

     Adam snarled and turned his back on her. Impossible female. Why was he beset with impossible females? Mrs. Potts, with her eternal hope, Plumette, and now _her_. Belle, behind him, was silent for a long moment.

     “Try to get some rest,” she said at last. “You can put a shirt on in the morning; for now let your wounds air out.”

     Adam didn't respond. What was there to say? What an awful, awful day. Behind him, he could hears Mrs. Potts and Lumiere thanking Belle for helping him. It shamed Adam that he could not say it himself, but the words froze in his throat. He couldn't remember the last time he thanked someone. He thought that if he spoke to her now, if he said anything at all, he would begin to weep and not stop. And he couldn't, _couldn't_ , cry in front of this girl.

     “Why do you care about him so much?” Belle asked, not bothering to lower her voice.

     Ouch. Adam closed his eyes. Was he really so vile that she doesn't care to keep from insulting him almost to his face? _Yes, of course you are. Add that to your list of names_.

     “We've looked after him all his life,” Mrs. Potts said, a smile in her voice. “Most of us have known him since he was born.”

     “But he's cursed you somehow,” Belle protested. “Why? You did nothing.”

     Adam closed his eyes, pressed his aching leg against the mattress until it throbbed. If he could concentrate on the physical pain, it would distract him from the conversation behind him. But he couldn't not hear Mrs. Potts's reply.

     “You're quite right there, dear,” his old nanny said. “You see, when the Master lost his mother, and his cruel father took that sweet, innocent lad and-and twisted him up to be just like him...we did nothing.”

     Adam's breath caught in his throat. They knew. They knew what they had done. They knew that they had turned their backs on him, that he had stopped relying on them because he had known they wouldn't stop his father. All those times that the old Prince had beaten his son, all the times that he had punished goodness and rewarded debauchery, all those times when he had mocked Adam and belittled him and thrown a thousand vicious verbal darts his way, the staff had stood by and watched. They had surrounded him, and Adam had been alone.

 _Maybe_ , he thought, _maybe the Enchantress cursed them for their own sins, not just mine._ It was the first time such a thought had occurred to him. Maybe they were _all_ at fault.

     They left him at last. Adam lay still, thinking of his mother, and how everything good had ended with her death. Somewhere below, he could hear Chapeau playing his violin. The melody was the lullaby that Maria-Eleanor used to sing him. Adam sighed, missing her with a fierceness that scared him. He missed her warm hands holding his and comforting him, her smile, the way she would read to him whenever he was sick in bed. _What did I do to deserve losing you, mama? Please, I'm so frightened_.

     Finally, finally, he slept.

 

 

Author's Note: If parts of this chapter seem familiar, it's because I lifted, edited, and expanded the prompt "Sick" from my June Challenge series, "All That We See Or Seem". Even when I was writing it I felt that it needed to be in a longer fic. I am having fun with this story. Thanks for reading, and as always, PLEASE leave me a review in the comment box!

 


	8. Questions

**Chapter Eight: Questions**

 

     Belle returned to her room, to rest and to think. _Let him sleep_ , Lumiere had said as they left the Beast, but Belle didn't think he would. She had caught a glimpse of his face before leaving the room, after Mrs. Potts's revelation about his father. There had been such shame and sorrow in those eyes, those strangely human eyes, and something else that had chilled Belle to her core. Despair. For a moment their eyes had met and she had seen the darkness that festered in the Beast. Shame and sorrow she could understand, but despair?

     She sat at the foot of her bed and thought about it, as Madame de Garderobe sang to her. What was going on here? There was a curse of some sort; the little teacup, Chip, had admitted it even if Mrs. Potts and the others had ignored her question. The others. Belle looked up at Madame de Garderobe, singing in the corner.

     “Madame?”

     “Yes, my dear?”

     “Why did...why did he react so badly when I looked at his rose?”

     “His rose?” Madame's gilded eyebrows rose to her painted crown. “You touched the rose?”

     Belle shook her head. “No, I only looked. It was in a glass case.”

     “I should hope so,” Madame replied. “Our fates hinge on that rose, my dear. You must never touch it.”

     “Why not?”

     But Madame had fallen asleep again, snoring ever so softly. Belle sighed. So much for that line of inquiry.

     She washed her face and hands in the basin that the servants had set out, and cleaned her teeth. Madame de Garderobe, before she had fallen asleep, had managed to create Belle a nightshirt and dressing gown, the latter of fine pale green wool. Belle changed out of her rumpled clothing, and sponged her blouse off in the basin. The stove had been lit and radiated a bright warmth; she hung the blouse on the back of a chair before it. Hopefully it would be dry by morning; if not, she could prevail on Madame to make her a new one.

     Belle sighed and climbed into the big bed. How close she had been to escaping. She even thought that the Beast had been surprised that she stayed; he had looked so shocked when she helped him home. Belle punched her cold pillows into a more comfortable position. For some reason that she could not explain, she did not feel right about leaving. He wouldn't stop her now, she bet, if she tried, but she was not going to try. There was so much hope and love mixed into the sorrow of this place. The Beast was awful, but the staff-they loved him. Even if he could not see it, it was true. And they were obviously human, trapped in enchanted forms.

     What had Madame said? That Belle must never touch the rose? Why? What would happen if she did?

     Eventually Belle gave up on sleep. She was bone weary, but she could not settle. The bed was too big, the room too empty. Belle had never in her life slept in a house larger than a city building; the castle unsettled her, and would have even if it wasn't under an enchantment. She was worried about the Beast. There was a very real chance that he would sicken from his wounds, and if he did develop a fever, she would be powerless to stop it. Sighing, Belle slid out of bed and into her new dressing gown. There were slippers, too, and she peeled a blanket from the pile on the bed. There. She slipped out of the room and made her way to the West Wing.

     As she walked, carrying a single guttering candle before her, Belle found her thoughts consumed with questions. Most predominant in her mind was _why_ had they been cursed? And how was it that no one in Villeneuve knew about the castle? Had no one ever stumbled upon it before? Surely that was impossible. It was stunning, this place, one of the most beautiful homes she had ever seen. Had the Beast been responsible for that, before the curse? Could he have collected so much beauty around him, only to have it go to waste?

     And what of the Beast? He was at the crux of the mystery. He had cursed the servants, not the other way around. Belle fretted about it all the way to the West Wing. She knocked before entering the bedroom, this time, and receiving no answer, pushed the door open. He couldn't complain about her presence now, not when he needed looking after. Belle set her blanket down in the armchair next to the bed and bent over him.

     The Beast was asleep, having rolled onto his back. Someone had propped his injured leg on a cushion, and he lay canted to one side, favoring his injured shoulder. Just looking at those wounds made Belle go cold inside. How easily they could both have died.

 _Why_ had he come after her?

     She brushed her hand against his forehead; no fever, but it was early days yet. In his sleep, the Beast sighed. He was less frightening now, the pain and anger eased by sleep. Belle remembered what Chip said, that he was hiding because he had tried to smile and frightened everyone. _He really tried_ , Chip had said. How sad it was, to try something so simple as a smile, and fail. Her heart went out to him rather, for the first time.

     There was something else that Belle wanted to know, or rather, to see. She carried her candle over to the ruined painting on the wall. In the dim light she could just make out the tattered faces of the father and son, and the mother's untouched lovely face. Belle stood up on her tiptoes and gazed at them. There was a look she didn't like in the man's face, a coldness. Arrogance. The lady, in contrast, was beautiful and smiling. And their child, the little boy with the blue, blue eyes. Just a child, and a happy one. Only his face was gone, too, save for his blue eyes. The Beast's eyes. For Belle had no doubt anymore who this was, or had been.

     There was a puzzle here, and Belle meant to solve it. These people needed her help, and she would give it as best she could. For now, then, she would stay.

     But things were going to be different from now on.

     Belle returned to the armchair and settled down in it, the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The chair was worn but comfortable; she could sleep here. It was quiet in the room, and warm despite the broken windows around the balcony. The fire crackled and popped, giving off a comfortable autumnal scent, and the air from the balcony was cold and clear. She could smell the Beast, though; he would need a bath tomorrow. He stirred, as though wakened by the thought; Belle saw the light reflecting in his blue human eyes.

     “Are you well?” she asked, leaning forward. “Are you feverish?”

     He considered. “No. No fever.”

     Belle stood all the same, and leaned over him. “Would you like something to drink?”

     “Yes. Please.”

     He struggled to sit up; Belle helped him, easing an arm around his back. He stiffened under her touch, as he had done earlier in the evening, and Belle found herself wondering when the last time that someone touched him was. Someone human. She didn't dare ask. There was a jug and glass on the side table; Belle decided to give him as much water as he could handle and picked up the jug. The Beast opened his mouth, as though to say something, then sighed and took it, and drank deeply. Belle smiled at him.

     “I think you'll live,” she said.

     The Beast snorted, settling back on his pillows. “Yay.”

     There it was again, that flash of despair in his eyes. Did he not _want_ to live anymore? Belle settled down in her chair, studying him. He writhed a little under her examination.

     “Come now, it's not that bad,” she said at last. “You've not got a fever, which means we got the infection out in time.”

     He didn't answer, but looked away. Belle changed tactics.

     “That's you in the portrait over there, isn't it? Mrs. Potts said as much. She said that deep inside, you're a prince of a fellow.”

     The Beast looked at her. There was no anger in his face, no fear, nothing but that quiet anguish that so alarmed her. “And you believe her?”

     Belle raised her eyebrows at him. “I believe that you are cursed. The rest of it? You'll have to prove it to me.”

     The Beast looked away. Despair so palpable she felt she could reach out and touch it filled the space between them.

     “Anyway,” Belle continued. “I bet that you're not really so bad as you make yourself out to be. Anyone who lives in such a beautiful place can't be all bad.”

     “No?”

     Belle frowned at his tone. “If what Mrs. Potts said about your father is true, and I have no reason to doubt her, than you have reason to be angry. I would be, if I were you. But you don't have to be, you know. You can forgive and let it go. Goodness is a choice that we make every day.”

     The Beast stared at her.

     “Think about it,” Belle said, settling back into her blanket. “I'll stay here tonight. Go back to sleep, now.”

     The Beast was silent, so long that Belle thought he had obeyed her. Then his voice filled the darkness, soft and rumbling. “There's a truckle bed under this one. You can pull it out and sleep there, if you like. They keep the sheets fresh.”

     Belle bent and looked under the bed. There was indeed a truckle there; she pulled it out in silent oiled wheels. It had a soft mattress and coverlet and needed only a blanket. She would sleep very nicely on it.

     “Thank you,” she said, but there was only silence.

 

*

     Something was tickling her nose. Belle, cocooned in her quilt, turned her head and raised a hand to brush it away.

     “Mademoiselle,” a soft voice said. “Mademoiselle Belle, wake up.”

     Mademoiselle. Belle opened her eyes, disoriented. Where was she? Why was she lying in a truckle bed, so close to the floor? A feather duster with red jeweled eyes hovered above her, and all at once, Belle remembered. The castle. The enchanted objects. The Beast. She sat up with a start. Plumette fluttered over her, while the hat stand, Chapeau, stood near the door, a bundle of fabric hanging from him.

      “What time is it?” The sun had not yet fully risen.

     “About seven,” Plumette replied. “I know that you are very tired, mademoiselle, but I need to know-the Master. Is he well? I cannot tell if he has a fever.”

     Belle rolled off of the little bed and stood. The Beast, on the bed above her, lay silent and still. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm; once again Belle realized how different he looked without anger filling his face. She climbed up beside him to reach his forehead. No fever.

     “Good,” said Plumette. “I am glad. He has never been one for pain. I hope that you are not too offended by him.”

     Belle shrugged. After last night, her predominant feelings were mingled exasperation and curiosity, with a startling dose of pity mixed in.

     “I don't understand why he came after me.”

     Plumette swished her feathers. “There were wolves. And he is a creature, not a monster. He would not have been able to live with himself if he had let you die. He barely does now, as it is. But come, Chapeau and I have brought you clothing, if you would like to wash and dress. Mrs. Potts will be along with breakfast soon.”

     “Thank you.”

     Belle took the clothes from Chapeau, murmuring her thanks again. She followed Plumette through to the washroom, looking back over her shoulder once as she went to see Chapeau bending over the Beast, one knobby hand touching his wrist.

     “You really do care for him, don't you?” she said to Plumette.

     “Oui, mademoiselle,” Plumette said. “He has had a hard life, for all one lived in luxury. His mother died when he was very young and everything went terrible for him.”

     Belle's heart twisted a little at that. “He's awfully petulant.”

     Plumette laughed, flying ahead of Belle into the dressing room. “Yes, and so dramatic, no? He wanted his father's love desperately, and his father would not give it, and that made him worse than ever. He has the, how do you say? The panic. The one that makes it impossible to breath. I think he chose not to think about how awful he was in order to keep breathing.”

     “Anxiety.” How awful.

     “Yes. Then the Enchantress came, and now he does not breath at all, and it makes him impossible. Here we are. Shall I run you a bath?”

     Belle hesitated in the washroom doorway. She wanted to bathe, and she wanted to keep Plumette talking, to find out more about the Beast. Belle had never had a lady's maid, and was not aware that they are trained to stay with their lady all through her bath. Nor did she realize that Plumette could talk about the Beast for days, and was under strict orders from Cogsworth not to spill too many secrets. (Not that she intended to listen.) Plumette solved the problem by swishing down over the taps. Warm water began to pour into the basin. Belle made a mental note to find out how this worked later. The maid swished her feathers into the water, laughed, and flew to perch on the windowsill.

     “I very much enjoyed watching you shout at him last night,” she said to Belle. “It is very good for him.”

     Belle, undressing, made a face. “He was acting like a baby.”

     Plumette laughed again. “Yes, but also you were undressing him. He is not used to being so coldly divested of his garments, our Ad-the master. He was discomfited.”

     “I suppose I could've been kinder. I was angry. And...scared.”

     That was it. She had been scared, and angry, last night, and disinclined to behave gently towards the Beast. Belle hung her nightshirt and dressing gown on the hook at the back of the door and climbed into the bath. It was nice to sink into hot water, even if it was a little strange to have Plumette sitting right there. But the maid was not at all concerned.

     “Did you know him when he was little?” Belle asked, thinking about what Mrs. Potts had said.

     “Oh, yes, he was a dear when I first arrived. He was the tiniest, darlingest thing you ever saw, mademoiselle, always giggling. It wasn't until later that he, well, that he changed.”

     “What about the others?”

     “Well, Mrs. Potts was his nanny until the Princess died, and then she became head housekeeper. Monsieur the Prince did not feel that his son needed any women around him, to coddle him.” Distaste was evident in Plumette's voice. “Cogsworth came here with the Princess, as majordomo; I think they were distant cousins or some such thing. Lumiere came from Paris when he was fifteen. Maestro Cadenza (you met him last night, remember? The harpsichord) was hired on as court composer jut before the Enchantress came; the Madame is his wife. Chapeau is from a village called Villeneuve; perhaps you know it? Most of the rest of the staff come from there.”

     Belle froze in the act of washing her hair. They came from _Villeneuve_? How? No one in the village ever spoke of any missing family members. She said as much to Plumette.

     The maid swished her feathers again. “The Enchantress, it is all her fault. She made them forget us. So Chapeau had a mother and sisters there, and so many of the other maids and footmen have families, too, but they do not remember us.”

     “How awful!” Belle thought of the villagers; they seemed so happy, most of them. But...there was a dark undercurrent to the little town. She had often thought that it had too many merchants for a town its size, and not enough wealthy patrons to buy all of their wares. And the flower market, which always had hundreds of blooms available-had it serviced the castle, once? Belle's heart froze again: Monsieur Jean. _I've lost something_ , he always said, _but I can't remember what_. “Oh, my God! She's keeping you from your families!”

     “Yes,” Plumette said.

     “But-how can the curse be broken?”

     Plumette lifted off of the windowsill. “I am sure I cannot say. Come, come, mademoiselle, your bathwater is getting cold, and Mrs. Potts will be waiting with breakfast.”

     Belle finished bathing, feeling sick. These poor people. Even the Beast-did he have beloved family, too, that had forgotten him? She toweled herself dry and brushed out her hair, thoughts buzzing. There had to be a way to help them. There just had to be. She was so consumed with worry that she was almost dressed before she realized that these were not her clothes.

     “Plumette-what happened to my own things?”

     “They are being washed,” Plumette replied. “Your skirts were very muddy. Madame made these things for you, with my help. I hope you like them.”

     Belle looked at the ensemble. The skirts were a lighter shade of blue than her own had been, bright summer sky; they were made of quilted silk. There were soft flannel petticoats underneath, too keep the cold at bay. The chemise was of fine ivory linen, embroidered with flowers at the edge, and the cream-colored jacket was embroidered all over with flowers and vines. It was a beautiful outfit, and not nearly as fussy as the gown Madame had thrown on her yesterday. Belle dressed and put on clean socks with her boots. There. She was fit to be seen again.

 _I will be nicer to him today_ , she vowed, walking back towards the Beast's room. _I will try not to make him panic_.

     Sunlight was pouring down on the bed as Belle entered the room, and though the staff tiptoed about, setting out breakfast and whispering together, she could see that the Beast was awake. She went to him, noting that someone has put him into a shirt, and put her hand on his brow. Still no fever. Good. For a moment their eyes met. The Beast didn't quite smile at her, but the look on his face was neither angry nor embarrassed.

     “How are you this morning?”

     “Sore,” the Beast said. “But I heal quickly.”

     “You should have a bath, it'll help your muscles to relax,” Belle said. “Chapeau, would you run a bath, please?”

     “But I-”

     “No buts,” Belle said. The Beast's eyebrows went up; preempting a fight, Belle patted his arm and rolled off of the bed. She simply wouldn't give him the chance to argue with her.

     “What happens when the last petal falls?”

     Lumiere spoke. “The Master remains a beast forever, and become-”

     “Antiques,” said Mrs. Potts.

     “Knick-knacks,” said Lumiere.

     “Lightly used houseware,” said Plumette.

     “Rubbish,” snapped Cogsworth. “We become rubbish.”

     Of all the unfair things! Belle sank down on the trunk at the foot of the bed, staring at them. “I want to help you. There must be some way to break the curse.”

     “Well, there is one way,” Cogsworth began, and Belle's heart leaped. But Lumiere struck him across the chest with a candle, and Mrs. Potts spoke over them both.

     “It's not for you to worry about, lamb. We've made our bed, and we must lie in it.”

     Belle stared. How could she say that, when there was a castle full of people missing their families? How could they possibly accept this fate? She looked across the room at the rose, secure under its glass jar. A petal fell, and the castle shook as it crumbled. No wonder he had screamed at her last night. One jostle and she could have damned them all. Belle shivered and looked over her shoulder at the Beast. His eyes were open, and there was such sorrow in them that it took her breath away. All at once she realized how much he hated himself, how much he held himself responsible for what had happened. What had Plumette said, about him having the panic? _Then the Enchantress came, and now he does not breath at all, and it makes him impossible_.

     No wonder he acted the way he did. No wonder.

     “Are you hungry?” she asked, not knowing what else to say. “There's breakfast here.”

     The Beast looked over at her. “No. Thank you.”

     “I'll eat, anyway. You can have your bath.” For Chapeau was standing at the side of the bed, looking as expectant as a hat stand could.

     For a long moment the Beast said nothing. Then, “Lumiere, will you come with me? I'll need towels, and a brush.”

     Lumiere leaped to attention. “And great quantities of soap! Come, come, Chapeau, help him up. It is about time you had a bath, master! I am delighted by your decision.”

     And so saying, they helped the Beast climb out of bed and limp to the washroom. Belle kept her back turned as they went, filling her plate with the breakfast things that Mrs. Potts had brought upstairs. Fresh croissants with butter and cherry jam, a basket of boiled eggs, a pot of hot coffee and a little tureen of warmed milk. Belle sat and ate, enjoying the way the food tasted, and how it dispelled some of the gloominess from the West Wing. It was a nice room, and could be comfortable. They would have to clean it.

     “You're doing a good thing here, miss,” Mrs. Potts remarked. “I can't remember the last time he had a bath.”

     Belle smiled. “I can imagine. He didn't fight me on it.”

     Mrs. Potts nodded. “I'm that surprised, I don't mind telling you. He's been in a right state all week, even before you came here. Maybe the wolves bit some sense into him.”

     Belle suddenly remembered the conversation they had had last night, when she gave the Beast water and he offered her the truckle bed. _Goodness is a choice we make every day_. She wondered what choices he would make now.

 

 

 

 

Author's Note: A long one, this! It all but wrote itself, especially the first half. And I have some links for you guys. 

This is a truckle bed: http://www.pirtonhistory.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/cache/2013/11/z71/3125705001.jpg It was not uncommon for houses to have one of these stashed under a bigger bed; often the lady's maid or valet would sleep on it. 

This is the fancier version of Belle's outfit that Plumette provides: https://i.pinimg.com/736x/4d/6e/3a/4d6e3a894b8f05421b2e8c0d5c7a0516--caraco-th-century-fashion.jpg and this is its jacket: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/d2/2c/7f/d22c7f96335c525bb2b5aa7b6ce6472d--s-dresses-ladies-jackets.jpg

Contrary to popular belief, all 18th century ladies' fashion was not ridiculous. Most of it was quite practical. 

 

As always, thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think in the comments!


	9. Poems

 

**Chapter Nine: Poems**

 

     Adam sank into the bathtub and sighed. Steaming hot water embraced him like a lover, and he gave himself up to its embrace. How had he gone for so long without a bath? Stubbornness. Pride. Misery. He hadn't felt he deserved it. But Belle had been right, the bath was doing him immense good, and he hadn't even started washing yet.

     “Do you need my help, master?” Chapeau asked in his soft voice.

     Adam raised his wounded arm experimentally; it twinged and throbbed, and he lowered it. “Yes. Thank you.”

     “Which of the soaps would you like, Master?” Lumiere was at the cupboard, examining its contents. “We have jasmine-scented, lavender, rose (maybe not rose). Ah, here, peppermint!”

     “Do we have any soaps for creatures?” Adam deadpanned.

     “We have soaps for horses in the stables,” Lumiere replied. “And as much as you love horses, master, I do not think their soaps are for you. Peppermint is more befitting a gentleman, don't you think?”

     “I suppose.” It was on the tip of Adam's tongue to snarl that he wasn't a gentleman, but Belle's words of last night, g _oodness is a choice we make every day_ , rang in his ears and he bit the words back. He wasn't sure he knew how to be good. He had lain awake long after Belle fell asleep in the truckle bed, thinking about it. He had had etiquette drummed into him from a young age. How to act in a given situation, how to dress, how to eat, dance, ride, hunt. Adam knew which bows to make to kings and which to dukes, which suit to wear in the morning and which in the afternoon, which spoon or fork to use at what time and with what dish at dinner. But emotions had rarely entered into it, since his mother died. One acted the part.

      His mother had insisted on _please_ and _thank you_ when he interacted with anyone, regardless of status. She had insisted on kindness and good manners. She had insisted that he know of and care about the people around him. “Our servants see us at our very worst, my love,” she had said once, “and whether we like it or not, they are an extension of our family. You must always be polite to them.”

     Politeness had gone the way of many things after she died. The Prince de Courcy did not approve of interactions with the lower orders, and refused to allow Adam to defer to them, as he called the boy's use of _please_ and _thank you_. Adam had defied him at first, continuing to play with Plumette, letting Lumiere teach him to juggle, running to Mrs. Potts for tea and comfort. But the Prince saw all, and he punished. And Adam, terrified that he would lose them all, had pushed the staff away, relegating them to objects in the background. And they had never, not once, stood up to defend him against his father's thrashing stick and harsh words.

     Adam sighed. Chapeau, about to descend with soap and brush, paused.

     “Are you hurting, master?”

     “I...no, I'm all right.”

     Chapeau and Lumiere looked at each other, but neither commented on Adam's quietness. Instead, Chapeau got down to business, scrubbing Adam's fur until it lathered and glistening. Adam closed his eyes; he had forgotten how good it was to be touched. Even Chapeau's knobby hands were better than nothing. It was an amazing feeling, cleanliness. Mane, shoulders, back, arms and legs and tail-oh, this was bliss. Chapeau dumped bucket after bucket of warm water over Adam's head until all of the soap was rinsed, and he crouched in the tub like a mastiff. Towels would take forever to dry him-there was nothing else for it than to shake himself off like a dog. The force of it blew Lumiere off of the stool he had been standing on, and sent Chapeau scuttling backwards. Adam stepped out of the tub and felt mildly sheepish. There was water everywhere.

     “Well,” Lumiere said, reigniting his candles, “At least you are clean. Water dries. Come, come, master, let Chapeau brush out your fur. Start with the hair, Chapeau; women love nice hair!”

     “No, that's, that's all right,” Adam said. “Just brush it and let it be.”

     “It's a bit long,” Chapeau said, but Adam only shook his head.

     “I'm tired; I want to sleep. Just let it be.”

     It was more than he had let them do in months, if not years, and neither Lumiere nor Chapeau complained. Adam was rubbed all over with a towel and his fur groomed. He leaned into the brush, almost falling asleep under the rhythmic strokes. Afterwards, Chapeau helped him dress in a clean nightshirt and half-carried Adam back to bed.

     It would seem that Belle was right after all, Adam reflected as he sank into slumber. The bath had been wonderful; he felt better than he could remember being. There would be no living with her after this.

     He awoke sometime later the girl's soft voice. Adam lay still, slowly coming back to himself, listening in growing awareness to what she was saying. It was a recitation, Helena's speech from the first act of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. What splendid irony was this.

     “Love can transpose to form and dignity/Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind. And therefore-”

     “And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.” The words were out of his mouth before Adam knew what had possessed him. But it was too late to recall them, and anyway, she had been _quoting Shakespeare_ at his bedside. The look of astonishment on Belle's face as almost comical.

     “You know Shakespeare?”

     Adam tried to pull himself upright; his lower back ached from lying still so long. “I had an expensive education.”

 _Please let her like Shakespeare. Please, please, let her enjoy literature as much as I do._ The prayer rose unbidden out of Adam's heart; he suddenly wanted, _needed_ , Belle to love books the way he does. Books were the one thing that had kept Adam sane over the past few years; the only thing that had allowed him to forget himself and the horrors of the curse for a short time. If this girl could possibly like books, even a little-

     “Actually, _Romeo and Juliet_ is my favorite play,” Belle said, her face alight.

     Adam groaned and sank back onto the pillows forgetting to be polite and charming in his indignation. “Why is that not a surprise?”

     Belle's eyebrows rose. “I'm sorry?”

     “Well, the heartache, and pining...” Adam shuddered. He had horrid memories of being forced to act out bits of the play for one of his tutors. _Sentimental drivel_ , he had sneered at the time. “There are so many better things to read.”

     “Like what?”

     She sounded so exasperated that Adam looked at her again. Surely if she knew _Romeo and Juliet_ and _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ , she knew of _Much Ado About Nothing_ , and _Twelfth Night_ , and _As You Like It_? Surely she had read _Hamlet_? What if she doesn't, he realized. What if she had somehow missed them. He can't remember if there are schools in his villages, though he has always assumed there were. Adam looked at her again, and began to sit up.

     “What are you doing?” Belle asked, alarmed, as he swung his legs out of his bed.

     “Looking for trousers,” Adam replied. “There should be some in that bureau there. Will you...?”

     Belle got up and went to the bureau, returning with a pair of soft blue breeches. She handed them to him and walked away, rightly guessing that he was not about to let her help him get dressed. Adam was relieved when she went through the door into the dressing room and he could shove the blankets off and stand, buttoning the breeches as he did. What had she been up to, anyway, sitting by his bedside? It was almost as if she cared. Adam banished the thought. He had ruined his chances with Belle before he had even met her. She would never break the curse, even if she did want to help the staff.

     “Are you decent?” Belle called before coming back into the bedroom. “Here, it's cold. I've found you a coat.”

     Adam looked around, surprised. Belle held out a faded blue greatcoat, one that Madame de Garderobe had made at Lumiere's insistence, after the curse had started. He had never worn it.

     “Thank you,” he mumbled now, and let Belle help him put it on. “Come on.”

     “Where are we going?” Belle asked, falling into step beside him as they left the West Wing and strode through the castle.

     “To improve your terrible taste in literature,” Adam said, and cursed himself for it.

     “My taste in literature isn't terrible,” Belle replied. “I'd even say it's excellent considering how difficult it has been to get a hold of books in Villeneuve.”

     Curiosity got the better of Adam. “Do they not have books there?”

     “Not many,” Belle said, smiling a little. “Pere Robert has a decent collection, and I've been able to buy a few from traveling traders. It was easier in the city, of course.”

     “The city?”

     “Papa and I used to live in Paris, when I was small,” Belle said, and for a moment a shadow passed over her face. “Then he got a job painting frescoes at Versailles, and I was able to go to school there for a few years. After that we wandered, mostly to other cities where Papa could paint portraits for important people. We were in Rouen before we came to Villeneuve.”

     “Why Villeneuve?” It couldn't have been for the work; the Enchantress came long ago and the castle was forgotten.

     “I don't know,” Belle replied. “It seemed a good idea at the time, I guess. Anyway, Pere Robert only has a handful of Shakespeare, and they're mostly the tragedies. Books are rare in Villeneuve.”

     Adam flung open the library doors. “Well, there are a couple of things in here you could start with.”

     His heart pounded in his chest, waiting for Belle's reaction. He didn't think he could bear it if this strange young woman didn't like the library. It was Adam's refuge, his _sanctum sanctorum_ , the only place in the castle where he had ever felt free to be himself, Adam de Courcy, a rather quiet young man who liked books and learning and losing himself in stories. But the look on Belle's face startled him, as she gaped around the huge space, taking in the depth of the room, the galleries and fireplaces, the scientific instruments, the thousands of books. For a moment, Adam thought she might faint.

     “Are you all right?”

     “It's wonderful!” Belle burst out, her eyes shining.

     Adam looked around, smiling a little. It _was_ wonderful, smelling of wood smoke from the fire, of paper and ink and the mellow leather scent of a thousand books. How many days had he spent in this room, curled up with a good book and a cup of tea or glass of brandy, even before the curse? And it had been his mother's room before him, in days long passed. And Belle liked it. _She liked the library_. Adam found himself speaking.

     “Well, if you like it so much, it's yours.”

     Belle turned and stared at him. There was such joy in her eyes that Adam's gruff, unloved heart jumped a little. He began to turn away, to leave her to it, but her voice rang out behind him. “Have you really read every one of these books?”

     Adam turned back to her, looking around the shelves again. “Pfft, not all of them. Some of them are in Greek.”

     The quip fell from his lips before he could stop it; Adam felt as surprised as Belle looked.

     “Was that a joke? Are you making jokes now?” she asked.

     Adam didn't know what to say. She liked the library, when he had been so afraid she wouldn't. She liked books, and reading. He bobbed his head. “Maybe.”

     And he turned and walked away, leaving her to stand and stare at the room. He went to sit by the fire in the south end, keeping one surreptitious eye on Belle. It was not that he thought she would do anything to harm the books, but she was a villager without much experience in a library. She was also a woman in his home, and he had not had one of them around in years. How was it that he, Adam, the Libertine Prince of France, had managed to forget what it was like to be around women? He loved women. _Had_ loved women, before. Loved being with them, flirting with them, making love to them. But he had never let them get close to him, not really. He had never confided his love of literature to any of them.

     How many clever young women had he missed really knowing because he was afraid of their scorn?

     Belle, though. She danced through the library, running reverent fingers along leather spines, occasionally pulling a book out, thumbing through it, putting it back. She climbed up into the galleries, poked around, slid back down the ladders. They had dressed her in new clothes, soft and pretty. _She will never love me_ , Adam thought, _but maybe, just maybe, we can be friends_. After a good half hour or so, Belle approached him at the southern fireplace.

     “There are too many books; I don't know where to begin!” she said, and indeed, she looked overwhelmed.

     “The sections are labeled,” Adam pointed out.

     “I know; but the choice is overwhelming.” Belle gave him a look of sudden shyness. “Would you care to recommend anything?”

     Something surged through Adam; after a moment's reflection he realized that it was delight. He couldn't remember the last time someone had asked him to recommend a book. He stood and limped over to the poetry section, and pulled a small, well-loved tome from the shelf. Reaching above and over, he pulled a tall and thin book free, and, after some hesitation, another book from just below.

     “I don't know your tastes,” he said, trying and failing not to sound gruff. “But if you liked That Play, you may enjoy these.”

     “Tell me about them.”

     Adam gave her a sharp look; was she mocking him? But Belle's face was open, earnest. “This one,” he said, waving the little one, “is a compendium of English poetry given to me by my last tutor. This one,” the long thin book, “is called _The Blazing World_ , by Lady Cavendish; this last is Chaucer's _Canterbury Tales_.”

     “Are they all English?” Belle took the books and turned them over reverently in her hands.

     Adam found himself not quite smiling down at her. “Not all of them, but the English are prolific writers.” He hesitated, then added, “My mother was English. You could say I took an interest.”

     Belle looked up and smiled at him, a real, honest smile of delight and pleasure. “Thank you. This is...thank you.”

     Adam didn't know what to say to that. He settled for bobbing his head at her, and beat a hasty retreat. Belle let him go, settling into a chair with her treasures. She'd be all right, Adam thought. She loved books as well as he did. More, perhaps, because they had been so scarce before. He smiled to himself, careful not to let her see. She was happy; he did not want her to be frightened.

*

     They read throughout lunch, which they took in the dining room. Had it only been yesterday that they had screamed through the door at each other, each resistant to dining with the other? Adam felt a thrill of embarrassment thinking about it, and shoved the event from his mind. He had slept most of the morning away, and was starving by the time Cogsworth announced lunch. Almost at once, Belle stood over him.

     “You must eat,” she said, gripping the poetry compendium. “You lost a lot of blood last night and need to regain your strength.”

     “Very well,” Adam said. He didn't feel unwell anymore, not really, but reflected that she was probably right. He followed Belle down to the dining room, trying not to notice the delighted look on Lumiere's face as they entered the room.

     “Master, mademoiselle,” the maitre d' greeted them. “For your delectation Monsieur Cuisinier has cooked a nourishing tomato soup served with parmesian rolls and followed by _poulet roti a la Normande_ and a fresh vegetable salad. Cheeses and dessert will follow; Monsieur le Chef has created a crème plombières praliné which will be served over spongecake. Bon appetit!” And the maitre d' vanished into the kitchen as Chapeau brought the first dishes to the table.

     “Well,” Adam said. “Bon appetit.”

     “And you,” Belle said.

     It was a good meal, marred only by the look on Belle's face when Adam ate his soup. He caught her eye and saw her smile at the liquid running down his chin and into his beard, and felt a stab of embarrassment. But she did not say anything, merely went back to her book. Adam beckoned for a napkin, which Chapeau brought to him, along with a little bowl of warm water. Perhaps Adam would have to give up soup in the future.

     After lunch, Belle rose. “I'm going to take a walk. Would you like to come? It will do your leg good to stretch the muscle.”

     Adam hesitated. Then, “All right.”

     They walked out into the snowy grounds, Belle wrapped in a thick shawl. Adam wondered at that, but presumed she knew what she could handle. They took a few turns through the maze before heading out into the grounds near the lake. Belle carried the poetry compendium with her, and as they went over the bridge, opened it and thumbed through.

     “This place reminds me of something I just read. Here it is.

 

 _The air is blue and keen and cold,_  
With snow the roads and fields are white  
But here the forest's clothed with light  
And in a shining sheath enrolled.  
Each branch, each twig, each blade of grass,  
Seems clad miraculously with glass:

 _Above the ice-bound streamlet bends  
Each frozen fern with crystal ends_.

 

     Adam listened to her soft voice, looking out over the frozen lake at the trees in the distance. Each branch, each twig, each blade of grass...it really was beautiful. He had never really noticed it before, locked in his eternal misery. There were so many colors in the snow, muted blues and silvers and pinks. He had never really noticed before.

     Belle had stopped speaking and was looking at him.

     “It's as though I'm seeing it all for the first time.” Belle looked at him, curious. Adam cursed himself for speaking. “Is there any more?”

     Belle smiled. “Um...” She thumbed through the book.

_“But in that solemn silence is heard_

_the whisper of every sleeping thing._

_Look, look at me._

_Come wake me up._

_For still here I be.”_

_Come wake me up, for still here I be_. Adam looked at Belle, looking down at the book. _Come wake me up_. She looked up at him, curious. Adam tore his gaze away, heart pounding.

 _Come wake me up_.

 

 

Author's Note: Sorry that this is being posted so late. I had to take the weekend off, and there was an awful lot to do today. I'll try to post again within twenty-four house, though. FYI, the dinner that Lumiere describes can be found in Julia Child's "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" under the names described above. As always, please comment and let me know what you think!

 


	10. Snowballs

**Chapter Ten: Snowballs**

 

     The wind blew up again that afternoon, snow beginning to fall shortly thereafter. Belle, wandering the castle alone, for the Beast had gone off to rest after their walk, paused at one of the windows and looked out at the thickly falling snow. _Always winter_ , she thought, _and never Christmas_.

     Still, the castle was beautiful. There was something deliciously eerie about walking through the massive gloomy space. Most of it was shut up and abandoned, she had noticed that the night before. The staff kept parts of the castle tidy, but they seemed to have decided that there was not much point in keeping anything but the main rooms open. Even they were full of dust and shrouded furniture, wine glasses standing empty and unused, thick layers of dust covering shelves and painted mouldings. Chandeliers swathed in linens hung from the ceilings like ghosts. There was so much beauty here, all of it going to waste. Why? Belle suspected she knew the answer to that; it was the same reason the Beast had worn nothing but rags until last night. Despair. Why take care of your home, yourself, when you believed you were damned?

     But something had come over the Beast. while they were out on their walk. It had happened when she read out that poem, about waking up sleeping creatures. He had gone very still, as though the words affected him more than he could say. How long had the Beast been a prisoner of despair? Too long. _Come wake me up_ , Belle had read, and the Beast had turned and stared at her. _Come wake me up_.

     It wouldn't be easy, but with patience and no small amount of stubbornness, Belle knew it could be done.

     Belle made her way up to the library, poetry compendium in hand. She had seen Mrs. Potts coming this way a little while before, which suited Belle's purpose admirably. Mrs. Potts, the head housekeeper, would understand what Belle meant to do.

     At the library door she paused, smiling again up at the books on their shelves. What a place. It was clean, cleaner than the rest of the castle. Lived in. Belle knew a refuge when she saw it, and felt again that flash of amazement that had come over her at the Beast's words. _If you like that much, it's yours_. It had been so easy for him to say, when everything else seemed so difficult. Belle wondered at that. How could you just _give_ someone a library, when asking them to dinner was impossible?

     “Is Mrs. Potts in here?” she called, not sure whether to go towards the southern fireplace or the northern.

     “Over here, dear,” the teapot called, from the northern wing.

     Belle rounded the bookshelf and found Cogsworth, Mrs. Potts and the little teacup, Chip, sitting on their trolley near the Beast's armchair. All three of them looked round at her, the Beast not quite smiling.

     “Hello, Belle!” Chip said. “D'you like the library?”

     “I love it,” Belle replied. “It's the most beautiful place I've ever seen. This whole castle is stunning.”

     “It's a mess,” the Beast replied, frowning. “It's falling apart.”

     “Not all of it,” Belle replied. “Most of it is beautiful. But it's in desperate need of care, and that's why I need you, Mrs. Potts, Cogsworth. I would like to start cleaning the castle.”

     For a moment all of them stared at her. Then,

     “Well, if you insist,”Cogsworth said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I can get the maids started at once.”

     “We _have_ let it go to pieces,” Mrs. Potts said. “There didn't seem much of a point, without guests.”

     “We can start with his room,” Belle said, nodding towards the Beast.

     “There's nothing wrong with my room,” the Beast protested.

     Belle was disinclined to fight, and tried for a reasonable tone. “You've been sleeping in a nest on the floor.”

     “So?”

     “So, people don't do that.”

     The Beast gave her an exasperated look. “It may have escaped your notice, but I am not a person.”

     Belle eyed him, sitting there in moth-eaten clothing, his mane unkempt. He looked so much better than he had just yesterday; she would not allow him to regress. The Beast squirmed a little under her gaze. “You were born a person, you'll die a person. Will you need my help, Mrs. Potts, or can Chapeau clear things out by himself?”

     Mrs. Potts beamed all over her painted face. “Never you mind that, dearie; we are more than capable of cleaning. Come along, Cogsworth; we'll just give the order. Dinner is at seven, now, don't forget.”

     Belle smiled around at the Beast as the servants trundled out. “Trust me, you'll feel better for sleeping in a real bed, in a clean bedroom. Cleanliness does wonderful things for the morale, my father always says.”

     The Beast grumbled a little, but let it go. Indeed, he looked more bewildered than angry. Belle left him before the fire and began to wander the shelves.

     “You don't mind if I explore?”

     “Not at all,” the Beast said, surprised.

     Belle shot him a wry smile. “You minded yesterday.”

     “That was different,” he said, embarrassed. “I was frightened. The rose...”

     “Yes, Lumiere explained.” For a moment they looked at each other in silence, then Belle continued on. “Never mind. What's done is done. I'll be more careful in the future.”

     The Beast was looking at her with a strange expression, as though he didn't quite know how to respond. He settled for, “I'll try not to frighten you into riding away.”

     Belle dropped the book she had just pulled out and squawked. “Philippe!”

     “What?”

     “Philippe! My horse! Oh my God, I forgot all about him!” She ran towards the door, everything forgotten. “What kind of a mistress am I?”

     Out of the library, down the stairs and across the front hall Belle ran. Lumiere, perched on a side table overseeing a bevy of maids dusting, called out to her.

     “Mademoiselle! What is wrong!”

     Belle stopped at the door. “My horse, Philippe! I didn't take care of him last night-”

     “No indeed, Cuir did. Our head groom,” Lumiere clarified, seeing Belle's mystified look. “He has not had a horse to look after in quite some time. I believe your Philippe is being spoiled rotten.”

     Relief flooded through Belle. “Really? Oh, thank goodness, I was so angry at myself!”

     “Cuir is a dab hand with horses,” the Beast said, limping down the staircase towards her. “He's taken care of all of the castle horses since I was a boy.”

     “Oh.” Belle felt a fool. Of course a castle like this, with a stable under the terrace, would have a groom. “And...what is Cuir now? I mean, as...”

     “A curry comb,” Lumiere said. “He said it was only fitting, after he got used to it. I'm sure he'll be delighted to make your acquaintance.”

     The Beast had reached the bottom of the stairs and was walking towards her. “Here, I'll introduce you. He can be gruff, old Cuir. Chapeau, is that cloak for Belle? ”

     The hat rack dropped a fine red wool cloak around Belle's shoulders and turned her around by the shoulders to tie it shut. Surprised, Belle submitted to being fussed over. No one had tied her cloak for her since she was a little girl.

     “Thank you, Chapeau,” she said, and followed the Beast out into the snow.

     The wind had dropped, but snowflakes still filled the air as they walked down to the stable. Belle trotted alongside the Beast, wondering if she should make conversation. Why was he being so polite, all of a sudden? The Beast led her to the stable under the stairs. Not the main stable, Belle realized; this was more of a halfway point, a trio of stalls meant for short-term visitors. How peculier.

     “Cuir!” the Beast called.

     “What?” came a bellow.

     “Mademoiselle Belle wishes to see her horse!” the Beast called back.

     A curry comb appeared, moving along a shelf that ran the length of the stable. “Oh, indeed? And what does Mademoiselle Belle have to say about leaving her horse wandering alone, fully tacked, twice in one day?”

     The Beast looked at Belle, who blushed. “Forgive me, please, Monsieur Cuir. Both times I was going in aid of another.”

     Cuir gave her an inscrutable look. “Horses aren't dumb beasts, you know, mademoiselle. You can't just abandon them.”

     “Cuir...” the Beast warned.

     “No, he's right,” Belle said. “It won't happen again, monsieur, I promise.”

     The curry comb harrumphed. “I should say not. Here he is, then, mademoiselle, enjoying his oats. I wouldn't approach him if I were you, Pri-Master. He's had enough frights for one day.”

     The Beast's face clouded over; for a moment he looked discomfited and angry. Then he sighed and vanished back out into the snow. Belle went to Philippe and put her arms around him.

     “How are you, then, my lad? Enjoying your oats? I'm so sorry about last night. But you're not afraid of him, really, are you? You helped us back here last night. Come with me. Come and meet him.”

     She opened the stall door and led Philippe out into the snow. Cuir called out good luck as they went.

     The Beast stood in the garden near the start of the hedge maze. He looked angry and sad, Belle thought. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps he had loved horses, once, when he was a man. Why else have a stable?

     “Here, I've brought Philippe to meet you,” she said, crunching through the snow, the horse following behind.

     The Beast stared. “He won't be afraid?”

     “Not if I ask him not to be,” Belle said. “Come towards us, slowly now.”

     The Beast moved forward towards Philippe, and held out a hand. Philippe snorted and stepped back, prancing. Belle stroked his neck and nose, murmured to him. She held out her hand to the Beast; after a moment, he laid his hand in hers and she pressed it to Philippe's neck. There. The Beast stood still for a long moment, just touching the horse, then began to stroke him, gently. Belle met his eyes and nodded, pleased. Astounded, the Beast gave her again that shy not-quite-a-smile.

     “I'll leave you to get to know each other,” she said, and moved away, up the stairs towards the terrace. Halfway there, she paused and looked back.

     How funny it was, that a person could change so quickly. Just yesterday the Beast had been so mean and awful that she hadn't at all pitied him for being cursed. Now he was...different. Belle couldn't quite put her finger on it. He was almost dear, and so unsure, like he was terrified that each word he uttered would be met with harshness and contempt. And he didn't smile, not really. What had Chip said, that he had tried and frightened the staff? Poor thing. He was being so sweet with Philippe, whuffling back at him and shaking his mane. Belle grinned. _I wonder_...

     She gathered up snow from the balcony and packed it together. The snowball sailed through the air and hit him in the shoulder. The Beast jumped around, startled. Belle laughed.

     “Oh, really,” the Beast said, and bent to the snow. Belle stopped laughing when she saw his snowball. It flew through the air and hit her in the face with enough force to knock her over backward. For a moment she lay stunned on the terrace, then jumped up, yowling.

     And stopped, seeing the look on his face.

     The Beast was smiling, laughing even, to see her with a red face and snow in her hair. Belle felt something quite like delight run through her, despite the way her face stung.      “Hey,” she said, “You're smiling! I thought you could.”

     He raised a hand to his lips, surprised. Belle grinned down at him. It was a sweet smile, and she would show him that she was not afraid. Not anymore.

 

 

 

Author's Note: There may be something there that wasn't there before! In which Belle begins her reign of loving kindness. She's very much a "pull yourself together" sort, our Belle. Thank you for reading, and please warm the cockles of my writer's heart by leaving a comment! The last few days have been rotten. 

 

 


	11. Mirror

**Chapter Eleven:**

 

     For some reason that Adam could not understand, Belle did not hold the snowball to the face against him. She laughed about it, and shook the snow out of her hair.

     “You have good aim,” she remarked, coming back down the steps towards him, “but we need to work on your size perception.”

     “I'm sorry,” Adam said, noting how red her face still was. That snowball really had hit her hard. “You're not...are you hurt?”

     “Not at all,” Belle replied, reaching passed him to stroke Philippe's neck. “It would take more than a snowball to do me in.”

     There seemed nothing to say to that, and they returned Philippe to Cuir's care in the little stable and went in to dinner.

     Belle ran upstairs to wash her hands before eating, and Adam took the opportunity to go ahead of her into the dining room, and through to the kitchen.

     “Lumiere!”

     The maitre d' was standing on the kitchen table, talking to Cogsworth. Both clock and candlestick spun around as Adam cam int the room.

     “Master! Is there a problem?”

     Adam was brought up short; for a moment he had almost been ready to tell them what a wonderful day he had had, that Belle loved books, loved the library. That he had thrown a snowball into Belle's face and she had laughed, not screamed. But the words failed him. He cleared his throat. “Lumiere. I wonder if you would be so good as to seat Belle and I closer together tonight.”

     Surprise wrote itself across Lumiere's face. “But of course, master! Chapeau, did you hear that? They want to sit together tonight.”

     There was so much delight in Lumiere's voice that Adam fled the kitchen.

     Belle, when he came back, was standing in the dining room, looking at the wooden frame that had once held a mirror. There was no anger in her face, but a mild curiosity. With a tilt of her head she acknowledged Adam's presence, but she did not take her eyes off of the frame, to which a few jagged shards of mirror clung. Adam felt a thrill of trepidation.

     “Why are these all shattered?” she asked at last.

     “Guess,” Adam said.

     Belle turned and raised an eyebrow at him. “You couldn't turn them to face the wall?”

     “Er. No.”

     “It's just that mirrors are expensive. One of these could have fed Villeneuve for a year, you know. It seems...wasteful.”

     Adam squirmed and glowered at her. “I can't say I was concerned with the cost when I broke them.”

     Belle shrugged and sat. “Never mind. What's done is done.”

     She helped herself to soup and rolls, letting the silence stretch between them. Adam sat down and waved away Chapeau, coming to change around the setting. What was there to say to her? The truth? The truth.

     “I couldn't...I couldn't bear to have them around me after the-after. I couldn't bear to see myself in them.” He glared at the soup tureen before him. “I am hideous. I don't want to see myself.”

     Belle broke a roll into bits and dropped each pill into her soup. “It must have been a shock.”

     Adam snorted. “You don't say.” Shock didn't begin to cover it. Adam flinched away from the memory of those first days. Days filled with shock and fear and near-unendurable pain.  

     “Still,” she said, taking up a spoon. “I don't think you're so hideous.”

     It was as though she had hit him in the face. Adam stared down the table at Belle, nonchalantly eating her soup.

     “You can't mean that,” he said at last. “You recoiled the first time you saw me.”

     “And so would you have, had someone wearing a filthy old cloak and skulking in the shadows like a vampire suddenly gotten into your face,” Belle replied. “I was startled. If I'd been horrified I would have reacted much differently.”

     “How?” She had flinched; that was enough. Wasn't it?

     “Well, I might have bashed you with the candlestick or pushed you over the edge of the stairs. It seemed better to negotiate with you, and that's what I did.”

     “Ah.” Wait. “That candlestick was Lumiere, you know. He might have taken exception to that.”

     Belle grinned. “I didn't know it was Lumiere at the time. I also had plans to bash you with Chapeau, later, if you frightened me again.”

     “Oh, now Chapeau would _really_ have taken exception to that.” Adam grinned to himself at the very thought. Chapeau, who was always there, quiet and unexceptional in the background, and had been since before Adam's childhood.

     “I daresay he would.” Belle grinned a little. “Still, I'm sure he would have eventually understood. Tell me, why _did_ you wear all those rags when you have a perfectly serviceable wardrobe?”

     Adam looked down at his hands, embarrassed. “I am a creature. It...didn't seem worth the trouble.”

     “And what about that dressing room full of fine clothing I found upstairs?”

     “You found that?”

     “Yes, when I went looking for that coat you're wearing. You haven't answered my question.”

     Adam looked at his wine glass. Ugh, wine. His head throbbed at the very thought. “I used to love fashion,” he said, edging the glass away from himself. “It was...an approved means of self-expression. After we were cursed, there didn't seem to be much of a point.”

     Belle considered this, chewing on a bread stick. Adam could see thoughts warring in her eyes as she deliberated on what to say. Chapeau came around with a bottle of wine; Adam met his painted eyes and shook his head. Chapeau scooted along to Belle's end of the table, not quite smirking.

     “My father says that one ought to be neat and presentable as often as possible, less for those around us and more for our own morale,” Belle said at last. “Thanks, Chapeau.”

     “Well, my own morale has not been very high of late,” Adam replied. In fact, he could not remember the last time he had felt anything resembling good spirits, before today.

     “Well, if it makes you feel any better, you're not nearly as hideous as you seem to think,” Belle said. “Even if you do throw monstrous snowballs.”

     Adam stared down the table at her, nonplussed. Belle smiled a little and tucked into the _boeuf en daube_ that Chapeau set before her. They finished their meal in silence, Belle with her book and Adam with his roiling thoughts. _Not nearly as hideous as you seem to think_. She couldn't mean that. He was a creature, a monster. He had _fur_ , for heaven's sake, and fangs and claws and a _tail_. Being clean and wearing human clothes did not change any of that. No. He didn't believe her. He _wouldn't_ believe her.

     “All right?”

     Adam looked up; Belle was looking at him with a funny expression. He realized that he had bent his fork in half between his fingers. He dropped it and groaned.

     “I hope that wasn't alive,” Belle said, half rising.

     “It wasn't; none of the tableware is,” Adam replied. “Forgive me, I...Excuse me.”

     He pushed back his chair and stood, bowing to her a little. Then he fled the dining room, not quite running on his injured leg. He could feel Belle's eyes on him as he went, but did not turn back to her.

     Adam strode up to chambers, where the only large mirror left in the castle resided. _Not so hideous, not so hideous_. The refrain beat a tattoo in his head. He burst through his bedroom door and strode to the vanity, where once Plumette had done his hair and make-up before parties. Chapeau had turned the mirror to face the wall before Adam could get at it on his rampage after the first few days, when grief and horror had given way to white-hot outrage. Out of sight, out of mind. Adam turned it around now, struggling a little under the heavy gilded frame. He had to know just what it was she thought she saw in his face. There. Adam leaned on the long-neglected vanity and looked at himself.

     Where once was smooth ivory skin was now only fur, deep brown and matted. He had quite a beard, and his hair was overlong, and the curved horns were monstrous as a devil. His lips were thin brown lines closed over yellow fangs. But his own blue eyes looked out at him, glaring and caustic. Ashamed. Adam dropped his eyes from his reflection and sighed. _You're not nearly as hideous as you seem to think_. Her voice, in his head. Belle, who didn't strike Adam as someone who lied or flattered. He took a deep breath and looked again.

     He thought of the library, of his mother, of the staff whom he loved. He thought of walking in the snow, and poetry, and dancing deep into the night. Happy thoughts, ones that altered the expression on his face from its permanent scowl. There. He could see himself after all, under the creature's skin. _I am still here_.

     Adam could look himself in the eyes again. _Not so hideous_. He smiled at that, an upward quirk of the lips. There. Belle was right. Maybe there was hope for him, after all. Maybe he was not so monstrous. Lumiere's voice rang in his head. _Maybe she is the one!_

 _No. Don't think like that. You are a creature, will always be a creature. She will never love you_.

     Adam sighed, nodded at himself in the mirror, and went to bed.

 

 

Author's Note: Sorry for the late update; everything has been Complete Chaos chez moi over the last week and it's not looking to get any better anytime soon. So. This is a scene from the June Challenge, All That We See or Seem, that I liked too well to leave out of this story. There are a few of those coming, so consider yourselves forewarned. As always, thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think in the comments!

 


	12. Letters

**Chapter Twelve: Letters**

 

     “I think I've upset him.”

     “No, dear, you've made him think. I can't tell you how much good you are doing him.”

     Belle sat on her bed, wrapped in her dressing gown, hands wrapped around a mug of milky English tea. Mrs. Potts had come up alone after dinner for tea and company, and Belle had found herself pouring out her fears to the housekeeper. The Beast had all but run away after dinner and was nowhere to be seen.

     “I just didn't want him to think he was frightening.”

     Mrs. Potts chuckled. “Bless you, dear heart, he's thought he's frightening for years. He convinced himself he's a monster.”

     “Well, he certainly acted like one yesterday.” Belle thought back to the screaming, the tantrums, the arbitrary taking of prisoners. “What _was_ his problem?”

     “Well...” Mrs. Potts hesitated. “He was unwell. A headache.”

     Belle frowned; she had had headaches and hadn't acted like that.

     “Also, we bullied him a bit,” Mrs. Potts admitted. “About dinner. I daresay he was feeling attacked.”

     “But what was so important about the rose that he took my father prisoner in the first place?”

     Mrs. Potts hesitated again. Belle watched her, wondering just how much the staff was telling her about anything. She knew that they were keeping the terms of the curse from her.

     “Those flowers are the only thing that survived this winter,” the teapot said at last. “When he found them, the Master forbid anyone else to touch them. They belonged to his mother, you see, and he guards them jealously. Also, well...”

     “What?” _Just tell me._ Belle was beginning to get fed up.

     “When I said he was unwell, well, it was less a headache and more of a...a hangover. He had gotten himself roaring drunk on a couple of barrels of wine and really wasn't in any state to deal with visitors. I daresay he wasn't thinking straight.”

     Belle boggled. “A _couple of barrels_ of wine? How many are a couple?”

     Mrs. Potts sighed. “Six.”

     “ _Six?!_ How is he still alive?”

     “I really don't know. Something about being a creature, perhaps. He can hold his wine better than most, but that last barrel tipped him right over the edge.” Mrs. Potts sighed. “You may have noticed that he is...prone to melodrama.”

     Prone to melodrama. Prone to debilitating despair was closer to it. For a long time after Mrs. Potts left her, Belle ruminated on the Beast and all that she had learned about him thus far. His mother had died when he was small. His father had mistreated him horribly, to the point where he had the panic, as Plumette had called it. He had had an expensive education, in his own words, and loved books. He loved beauty, or had once, and he had loved his mother. He made shy jokes and tried not to smile. And he hated himself.

     That was it, Belle mused as she climbed into bed. He hated himself more than she had ever imagined was possible. Why else let this place go to wrack and ruin? Why else get roaring drunk on six barrels of wine, or refuse to bathe or change his clothes? She guessed that that hatred had led him to lash out irrationally, and led him to despair. _The poor thing_. He wasn't so bad, really, when he wasn't being a tit. Belle sighed and pulled her blankets up around her ears. Tomorrow. She would make things right with him tomorrow, or try to.

*

 

     Belle awoke early, to the sound of Madame de Garderobe's soft snores and to the wind whisking around the tower. Dawn light was beginning to brighten the room, and Belle rolled out of bed. She liked mornings. It was nice to be up before everyone else, and besides, she had the library to explore. Belle went through to the little washroom adjacent to her bedroom, then sought out her clothes. Yesterday's outfit had been folded away; set across the sofa in the little alcove was a quilted red skirt and a different jacket, this one longer in the skirts and patterned with tiny pink and yellow roses. It was also rather low-cut, and Belle sought out a fichu before dressing in it. There. She brushed her hair back and tied a ribbon around her head. She stood in her stocking feet and surveyed herself in the mirror, shaking her head a little.

     A very different Belle looked out at her. This Belle wore three petticoats beneath her skirt, and clean silk stockings, and fashionable clothes. This Belle looked like a young lady, not a villager; a young lady who could get used to dressing in fine clothes before stepping out to visit the caste library and eat breakfast with her royal host. The thought came to her, that she could get used to this. Belle smiled at the young lady in the mirror and was pleased to see her smile back. Really, she was not so different than the girl Maurice had brought her up to be. If they had stayed in Paris, in Versailles, this is how she would have dressed. Belle ran her hands over the heavy printed silk of her jacket. If they had stayed near the court, where the money was, instead of fleeing from Maurice's fears to Villeneuve. Belle sighed and turned away. _Don't think about that_. She slipped out of the room and walked towards the library.

     The castle was more familiar to her now, and Belle was glad of it. The servants had begun to clean yesterday, after she had spoken with Cogsworth and Mrs. Potts, and even in the early dawn light the castle looked cheerier than it had just yesterday. There was no one around. Belle wondered if she would find the Beast in the library. She rather doubted it; he was still healing from his injuries and anyway, he didn't strike her as much of an early riser. Besides, despair did funny things to people. It made them angry, and it made them sleep a lot.

     If Belle had had to name the moment when the Beast started acting kinder towards her, she would have said it was after he showed her the library. Right up until he had pushed those doors open and presented her with that treasure trove of literature, he had been sharp and defensive.

     Belle stopped dead in her tracks as the thought occurred to her. _He didn't think I would care about the books. He was waiting for me to be contemptuous_.

     Could it be that he was as much of a lonely bookworm as she herself was? After all, he had known immediately what to recommend her when she had asked for his help. He had known _Romeo and Juliet_ enough to know that he didn't like it. He had listened to her reading poetry yesterday, and had asked for more. Belle chewed on her lip, thinking, as she reached the library doors. He liked books, and had prepared himself for her contempt. Add that to the list of things Belle knew about him.

     The library was still empty, it's fires reduced to glowing embers. Belle stood in the doorway and inhaled; it smelled of leather and paper and ink. It smelled lived in, comfortable, safe and warm. This room was never abandoned, she realized. Yesterday she had recognized it as a refuge. Today she realized that it was the happiest room in the castle.

     Belle wandered, exploring her new domain. Oh, to grow up surrounded by books. She could have spent such days here as a child, curled up with a good book or studying at one of the tables. Had the Beast received his expensive education here? For a moment Belle imagined a small golden-haired boy sitting at one of the desks, head bent over his books, learning Greek or Latin or sums. She grinned to herself and climbed up into one of the galleries, hoisting her skirts to her knees as she twisted up the little curved staircase.

     “What sort of books have we here?” she murmured, running her fingers over the spines.

     Some of them were not books, she realized. They were boxes, tall ones, that contained letters, Belle saw as she pulled one out. For a moment she hesitated, wondering. Letters were personal; would he be offended if she read them? But they could give her some sort of clue to the nature of the curse the castle was under. Research, Belle decided. The pursuit of knowledge to help others. She leaned the box on the shelf and sorted through them.

     They were old, these letters, she soon saw, more than a hundred years. The personal correspondence of some long-dead noble ancestor. Interesting; she would have to come back to it later. Belle put the box back and opened another. These dates were much more recent, the letters written some fifteen years before. Belle climbed down from the gallery and settled at a table, the better to peruse them.

     “ _My love,_

 _I cannot forget our time together. Never have I been as undone as I was under you. Your mouth on me, your hands in my-_ ”

     Belle put the letter down, blushing. Maybe this was a bad idea. A hasty scan of the rest of the letters showed that they were much the same: a variety of women writing to _mon prince_ , _mon amour_ , my darling boy. Well. _Let that be a lesson to you, my girl, against snooping_ , Belle thought, returning the letters to the box and pushing it away. It would seem that the nameless Beast had been something of a beast long before he was cursed, in more ways than one. Belle smirked at the thought. Naughty.

     But something bothered her about the letters, besides the graphic eroticism (who knew that you could do... _that_ in _that_ particular way...and enjoy it?). Belle couldn't quite put her finger on it ( _har har-stop it, Belle!_ ) but something had struck her as wrong. Something-

     The library door creaked open and Mrs. Potts trundled in on her trolley, sitting on a tray laden with milk and biscuits.

     “Good morning, Belle, dear,” Mrs. Potts said. “Plumette said she saw you come in here, and I thought you might like a nice cup of tea before breakfast.”

     And it struck Belle, what was wrong with the letters.

     “Thank you, Mrs. Potts; you're very kind.” Belle stood and helped herself. The teacup in her hands was not Chip, nor was it alive. She poured herself a cup of tea and put in a splash of milk. “May I ask you a question?”

     “Of course.”

     “What is his name? The Bea-the Master? Surely he must have one.”

     Mrs. Potts looked surprised. “Of course he does. Only he's forbidden us to use it, and woe betide us if we disobey him on _that_ front.”

     “Why on earth would he-”

     “I daresay it's because he doesn't think of himself as deserving a name,” Mrs. Potts replied. “It's not healthy, but what can you do? He's very dramatic, as you have seen.”

     “Yes,” Belle agreed. “I...I found some letters-I think they are to him, only none of them ever address him by name...”

     Mrs. Potts sighed a little. “The master was quite a one for going by his title. He wore it like armor, he did. But come, let's talk of something else. If he wants you to know his name, he'll tell you it. Now, what do you think of the library?”

     Belle knew when she was beat. “It's beautiful,” she said. “Yesterday he said that it is mine. Do you think he meant it?”

     “If that's what he said, than that's what he means,” Mrs. Potts replied. She smiled. “Though I am amazed, to tell you the truth. He does love his library.”

     Belle sensed the chance to learn more about her erstwhile captor and seized it. “He's been nicer since I told him I love books.”

     “I'm not surprised,” Mrs. Potts said. “He's never really had anyone to confide in. His father didn't allow secrets and held his love of learning in contempt. The master learned to hide it. Deep down, he's really not at all bad.”

     Belle nodded; this went along with last night's musings. All of that anger and selfishness-was it just a front? Was he simply so used to acting like that that he had forgotten how to be gentle? The character the Beast had showed her yesterday was gentle and kind, even funny. Was that his true character, peeking out from behind his fortress walls?

     “This was his mother's refuge before it was his, anyway,” Mrs. Potts continued. “They used to spend afternoons in here, eating cake and reading.”

     “When did she die?”

     “A long time ago, now. The master was ten.”

     So he had known his mother, and loved her. Belle felt a flash of envy at that, followed by guilt. Was it right to feel envious of someone who had to live with the horror of losing their mother at an age when they would remember the pain? At least Belle had been a baby when her own mother died. And she had always had Maurice. It sounded like the Beast had had no one to turn to.

     Her conversation with Mrs. Potts gave Belle an idea, one she chewed on as she made her way down to breakfast. The Beast was already there, dressed once again in his worn overcoat, his mane untangled but unkempt. He gave her a shy good morning as she entered the dining room. Belle smiled and returned the greeting. She wondered if she ought to bring up the letters and decided not to. She had a feeling that if she did, he would panic and run away again. And she was trying to connect with him, to build his trust in her, not frighten him away. No, she wouldn't mention them.

     “Bon appetit,” she said, and tucked into breakfast.

     The spread was lavish; each place set with a variety of small platters and tureens that contained sausage and boiled eggs, milky porridge, thin slices of ham and cheese. A basket held hot fresh rolls and _pain au chocolat_ , with little pots of cherry jam and butter set adjacent to it. Belle filled her plate and sneaked a look across at the Beast, wondering if he would stick his face into a tureen again, but he had opened his own bread basket and was making open sandwiches of the rolls. A sweet and a savoury, Belle noticed: one sandwich of meat and cheese, another of butter and the cherry jam. They ate in companionable silence for a while before Belle decided that her idea was a good one and cleared her throat.

     “These _pain au chocolat_ are delicious. I've only had them once or twice before.”

     The Beast looked up, surprised. “Really?”

     “Yes, chocolate is expensive, so the baker in town only makes them occasionally. Papa bought one for each of us when we were living in Rouen.”

     She watched the Beast process this information. He raised a hand towards his basket, as though to slide it down the table to her, then withdrew it. Was he worried the gesture will be taken as pity? Was he afraid that she would be embarrassed? Belle continued, watching him closely.

     “I did all of our cooking and baking, anyway. I quite enjoy it. Baking especially can be quite scientific.”

     “Monsieur Cuisinier told me once that baking is pure chemistry,” the Beast said. He gave her that shy look again, as though afraid of admitting this. “As I child I used to spend a great deal of time in the kitchens.”

     Belle smiled, wondering if this was before or after his mother's death. Before, she decided.

     “Do you think he would let me bake something?”

     The Beast looked surprised at the question. “Of course. You are our-you are free to do whatever you please.”

 _Good_. “Thank you, but I'll ask his permission all the same. It is his kitchen, after all.”

     The Beast opened his mouth to protest that no, actually, it was _his_ kitchen, but stopped. He knew that the kitchen was the chef's domain, whatever the owner of the house thought. Belle smiled into her hot chocolate.

     “Do you have any preferences?” she asked.

     “What?”

     “Do you have any desserts a simple country girl like me could make?”

     The Beast gave her a funny look. “You are hardly simple. I...perhaps you should make your own favorite.”

     Belle smiled again. “All right, then.”

     She turned the topic away to other matters, namely the books he had recommended that she read yesterday, and by the time they had finished breakfast, the letters were quite forgotten.

     Monsieur Cuisinier was delighted to allow Belle to use his kitchen, and watched with interest as she raided the pantry for ingredients. Butter, sugar, eggs, flour, almonds that she ground into powder, an orange that she first zested and then juiced. Belle talked to the chef as she worked, trading stories about traveling and learning to cook, about dishes each liked. It was good to bake; there were no mysteries here. The cake was simple, homely, the sort of thing to be eaten with afternoon tea. Belle made just the one and dusted it with icing sugar when it was cool. Mrs. Potts directed her to the dresser where the china was kept, and Belle selected a blue and white china platter to put the cake on.

     “Would you mind terribly if I asked for coffee to eat with this?” Belle asked.

     Mrs. Potts laughed. “Not at all, dearie. Break out the coffee, Cuisinier. Just how strong do you like it, love?”

     “Not too strong, with lots of cream and sugar,” Belle replied. “How does the-how does he take his coffee?”

     “Hot as hell, black as night, strong as sin, and as sweet as love,” Cuisinier replied.

     Belle blinked. “That's...impressive.”

     “Oh yes, he's quite the gourmand when he can be arsed to eat,” Cuisinier said. “Don't worry, mademoiselle, I'll make two separate pots.”

     The finished service, when it was all laid out on the trolley, looked lovely. It was not fancy, but rather homely and good. Comfortable. Belle grinned to herself.

     “Wish me luck,” she said to Cuisinier and the stove saluted her.

     And so, armed with cake, coffee, fresh cream, and sugar, Belle and the Potts family made their way to the library.

     Belle decided on the north fireplace, given that it had the most comfortable chairs. It was easy enough to set a table with the snack, chatting with Chip and Mrs. Potts. Belle fetched down a book of fairy tales and began to read aloud to Chip, tales of pirates and djinn and adventures in far away lands.

     “No one's eaten in here in years,” remarked Mrs. Potts, watching them. “I do hope you won't be offended if he doesn't take it well, my poppet.”

     “Well, if he doesn't, we can enjoy ourselves, anyway,” Belle said, giving Chip a conspiratorial wink.

     After a little while the library doors opened and the Beast walked in, drawn in by the scent cake and coffee filling the air.

     “Join us,” she invited him. “We were just reading together. Would you like some cake?”

     The Beast looked incredulous, but sat and accepted a slice of the homely cake, lifting it delicately between his fingers. He took a bite and his eyes closed in pleasure. Belle and Mrs. Potts traded a grin.

     “This is delicious,” he said. “Is it...orange?”

     “Orange and almond sponge,” Belle said, satisfied. “I got the recipe from the concierge of a boarding house Papa and I lived in when I was little. Almonds are expensive, so I used to substitute hazelnuts for them. But you have plenty here.”

     The Beast gave her that small, shy smile. “And is this a habit of yours? Eating cake and reading?”

     “Occasionally, usually in the autumn and winter months. Papa would work upstairs and I would do my lessons, and we would have cake and talk together.”

     “That sounds wonderful.” There was longing in the Beast's voice that made Belle wonder if he is thinking of gentler times. “What are you reading?”

     “A tale of mystery and adventure,” Belle replied. “We are enjoying ourselves, aren't we, Chip?”

     “It's an _excellent_ story,” the little teacup agreed.

     "You should stay,” Belle told the Beast. “We haven't gotten to the good part yet. And have some more cake; there's plenty to share.”

     The Beast nodded and settled into an armchair. Belle tucked her feet up under her skirts and continued to read. A comfortable stillness fell on the library as she read, until the story was finished and Mrs. Potts and Chip returned to the kitchen for more coffee.

     “Have you anything you'd like to read out?” Belle asked, stretching her feet towards the fire.

     The Beast, helping himself to a third piece of cake, looked up. “Well, I suppose I could find something.”

     “Do it,” Belle said, cutting herself more cake. “Anything you like.”

     The Beast smiled a little and stood, moving around the armchairs and passed the table towards the shelves. Belle heard him stop and looked around. Oh, dear.

     The Beast stood at the table, arrested in mid-stride by the sight of the box sitting open on it. There was a look of abject horror on his face.

     “Did you-have you read this?” His voice was soft and full of dread.

     Belle blinked. Drat. “Only one or two. I realized they were personal correspondence and meant to put them away.”

     “Don't bother.” The Beast picked the box up, carried it to the fire, and tossed it in. The letters ignited with a whoosh. Belle leaped to her feet.

     “What are you doing?”  
  


     The Beast sighed. “There are some things I do not wish to remember. I should have done that years ago.”

     Belle hesitated, wondering if he was angry. “I'm sorry.”

     “Don't be.” The Beast sighed again. “They belonged to someone else, someone who died long ago. Only his ghost remains now.”

     Belle put her hand on his arm. “Would you still like to read with me?”

     The Beast looked at her. “Yes. Yes, if you still want to after-after reading-”

     “Of course I still want to,” Belle replied. “There are ten thousand books in here that need reading. Come along, now, we'll take turns. What was this one that you recommended me yesterday? _The Blazing World_. That seems a good place to start.”

     They settled into their chairs again. The Beast watched her anxiously, but Belle kept her face calm and began to read. If he wanted to reject his old self, that was his business. She liked him better as he was now, anyway. She hoped that he could see that.

 

Author's Note: I'm back! I've spent the last six days driving through various Western states to weddings and various family dinners, and I am beat. I think this chapter got a little rambly, but I hope you all like it. I'm going to try to begin posting every day again. As always, thanks for reading and PLEASE let me know what you think in the comments!

 


	13. Dreams

**Chapter Thirteen: Dreams**

 

     “What about this one? It appears to be letters from about a hundred years ago.”

     “Keep those. They...keep them.”

     “All right. Hmm...oh, these letters are much more recent. Here, I'll pass them down and you can decide.”

     “Thank you.”

     Adam caught the box as Belle held it over the edge of the gallery rail. Somehow, from reading _The Blazing World_ , they had moved to tidying the library. Belle had been watching the box of love letters burning on the fire when she made the suggestion.

     “Why don't we go through the library and see if there is anything else here that doesn't need to be?”

     The suggestion had taken Adam by surprise. For years, letters and papers had accumulated in the library, tidied away into boxes that were set on obscure shelves. There must be hundreds of years worth of correspondence here. But he guessed at her meaning, and was grateful for it. Belle wanted to explore the library and she wanted to save him from embarrassment. Ergo, tidying.

     He had accepted with alacrity, and here they were.

     “Just put them on the table for now,” Belle called. “I've got loads more. Hang on...”

     Adam craned his neck, trying to see her. He was too broad to fit up the gallery stairs, and so had to trust Belle not to notice the more sordid books in his collection. Not that she would ignore them: she had found those letters, after all. Adam cringed again at the thought of her reading them; letters full of sex and seduction and ultimate betrayal, for he had rarely slept with the same woman more than twice. And what was worse, he had enjoyed it. He had enjoyed being desired, enjoyed making those women scream in pleasure, enjoyed making them beg for more. He had been an ass to every last one of them in the name of his own pleasure. If he had not already destroyed his chances with Belle by kidnapping her father, those letters would have certainly been his downfall.

     Belle's face appeared over the gallery rail. She was so lovely, her hair all tied back, her clothes elegant and attractive. “Here are some from only two years ago. How long did you say you've been cursed?”

     Adam stared at her, non-plussed. “Years and years. I've lost count. How can-”

     “I don't know, but they're from suppliers in Villeneuve to Mister Henry Cogsworth, about flowers for a ball. Two years ago.” Belle gave him an expectant look. “Go on, then. Tell me when you were cursed.”

     Adam's heart began to pound. “It was in March. The fifteenth of March, 17-. There was a storm that night.”

     Belle stared at him. “That was only last year.”

     Adam reeled and had to sit down. One year. Years and years and _years_ in this prison, in this form, and it had only been one year in the real world. His lungs closed; he leaned forward, trying to breathe. Belle clattered down from the gallery and came to put a hand on his shoulder.

     “It's magic,” she said. “All of this. She's removed you from time. How very strange. It makes sense, though. Chip Potts is still a little boy. And Papa and I were on our way to Villeneuve in March, with a purpose that neither of us can remember. We must have arrived just as the curse fell.”

     One year, one year. Adam forced in one deep breath, then another. One year. He pulled himself upright.

     “Forgive me, I was...that came as a shock.”

     “I can imagine.” Belle patted his shoulder. “Still, it's nice, isn't it? When the curse is broken, you'll only have been gone a little while.”

     Adam huffed a laugh. “The curse will never be broken.”

     “You're so sure?”

     “Yes.”

     Belle stared at him for a long moment, but Adam couldn't bring himself to meet her eye. At last, she stepped away from him, moving back towards the shelves.

     “You know, it makes me feel better to think that there must have been a reason for Papa and I to come to Villeneuve, even if I can't remember it. I wondered and wondered what our purpose there was, when Papa has to travel to the big market in Lansquenet to sell his clocks and music boxes. I mean, Villeneuve doesn't even have a decent school.”

     “Does it not?”

     “Not really. There is a school, mind, but only boys are allowed to attend, on the schoolmaster's orders.”

     This struck Adam as ridiculous. “Why ever not?”

     “He doesn't think it's right for a woman to read. She starts getting ideas, and thinking...” Belle shrugged. “I'm lucky that I was finished with my schooling before we came there. My father taught me to read and none of them can take it from me. They react badly if I try to teach others, though. The other day they threw my laundry in the dirt.”

     Adam stared at her, shocked. The girls he grew up with were taught nearly as much as the boys. He wondered if this is a peasant issue, and found that it irritated him not to know.

     “For _reading_?”

     Belle shrugged. “And for being different, I guess. For wanting more than what they have to offer me.”

     Adam struggled with himself; let her climb back into the gallery and examine another shelf of books before he asked, “What do you want?”

     She looked at him with a raised eyebrow. Adam almost regretted asking; she was technically his prisoner, after all. He took her dreams from her when he condemned her to her cell. He cursed himself for speaking, for not telling her that she was free to go home. For enjoying her company, almost in spite of himself.

     But then Belle spoke. “Books. Adventure. To be treated as an equal, not someone's little woman. To be loved for who I am and not what people expect me to be. To be taken seriously and not looked down upon.”

     When, Adam wondered, would she stop making statements that hit him in the face? It was as though she could see right into his soul and all of the hidden desires there. Desires that he had not dared to acknowledge for most of his life. He guessed that Belle would not stand for being treated poorly, could not imagine anyone treating her as a little woman to be condescended to.

     “What about you?” Belle asked, interrupting his thoughts. She leaned over the railing to pass him another box of letters.

     “What?”

     “What do you want after the curse is broken?”

     Adam didn't know what to say. He wanted everything, and nothing. He wanted the curse to break, despite knowing it was hopeless. He wanted to be human again. He wanted the staff to be free. After that? Nothing. He had never allowed himself to think that the curse will break and rather resented that she would make him even consider the possibility.

     He was quiet for so long that Belle spoke again. “I'm sorry; that question was awfully personal.”

     “It's all right,” Adam hurried to assure her. _Goodness is a choice, a choice._ “I...I think right now what I want most is lunch.”

     It was a non-answer, but Belle took it. She abandoned the gallery and they walked down to the dining room in amiable silence together, and read books while they ate.

     But her question, _what do you want after the curse is broken_ , haunted Adam. He thought about it constantly during lunch, so much so that he couldn't have told her what it was he read. What did he _want_? If he could be human again, if he could emerge from this terrible half-life and be in the world again, what would he want? Adam wished that he had someone to talk to about this, someone who could understand and advise. He settled for Philippe, walking the horse through the gardens after lunch. At least he was a good listener.

     “She wants to know my dreams,” Adam told the horse. “How could I tell her that I don't have any? She wouldn't understand!”

     He imagined Philippe's response. _Well, if you were free and human, what would you do?_

     “I would lower the taxes and make sure that the people in my lands prosper. I would build a school for girls like Belle. I would...I would be kind to people, good. Like my mother. She always cared for the peasants.”

 _So you would do your duty as prince_ , he imagined the horse saying sarcastically.

     “Well, yes, and I would do it well. I don't know, Philippe, I had a secretary and a notary who oversaw everything to do with my lands, before. They just brought me papers to sign. I don't know the first thing about governance.”

 _Then you should learn_. The voice in his head was Belle's. Adam sighed. He knew she was right. But then he shook himself. It was useless to learn, because the curse would never be broken. Belle was the only woman to come across the castle in all the years since the curse began (one year, one _true_ year; how could that be?), and she would never love him, no matter what Lumiere said. He had ruined his chances with her, even if they did seem to be getting along better.

     “I hate everybody,” he announced to the horse ambling beside him.

 _What did everybody do to you?_ The horse quipped back, and Adam laughs in spite of himself. Maybe he _was_ making jokes now.

     What was it that Belle had said was one of her dreams? To be loved for who she was and not what people expected her to be. She may as well have slapped him across the face with those words, spoken so casually. Loved for herself, not for what she was supposed to be. Adam sighed.

     “I suppose I know what she means,” he said to Philippe. “Only it's too late for me. I've never been allowed to be myself. I don't even know who I am anymore.”

     He was a beast. A creature. A monster with a terrible temper, who had lived so long filled with hurt and anger and terror that he didn't know how to behave around people. If Adam was honest with himself, he knew exactly what Belle meant. That old bastard the Prince de Courcy had never let Adam be himself. He had never been satisfied with his son, not once. Mrs. Potts was right. He had twisted Adam up to be just like him.

     “He hated me, you know,” Adam said aloud. “He hated everything about me. If I was kind to a servant, he punished me. If I liked something he didn't, he made sure it was removed from the castle. He never let me be me, and I hate him for that.”

 _You have many issues, my friend_. Adam laughed again, a bitter huff. Indeed.

     Still, Belle's words would not leave him. He went to the library after his walk, but she was not there. Lumiere, being asked, told him that she was helping the maids clean the ballroom, and that if he didn't want to be forcibly conscripted into helping, he should flee now.

     “I don't know how to clean, anyway,” Adam said.

     “Well, then, perhaps-”

     “ _No_ ,” Adam said.

     “It would be an excellent chance to woo her,” Lumiere offered.

     “You know, your saying that makes me want to toss you over the railing.”

     Lumiere smiled. “Master, with all due respect, if you attempt such a thing I will set you on fire.”

     Somehow, Adam did not doubt him. “You have great faith, Lumiere.”

     The maitre d' shrugged. “You forget that I've known you most of your life, mon prince. I know what you are capable of, even if you don't.”

     This was too close to Adam's own thoughts. He shrugged and walked away, leaving Lumiere staring after him.

     After dinner that night, in the library, Adam listened to Belle reading aloud from Cavendish's _The Blazing World_. It pleased him that she likes the book as much as she did. Adam had read it with his last tutor, Vane, and had enjoyed the strange premise. Belle's voice tumbled over the words as she read, hasty in her need to find out what happened next. Adam felt himself relaxing back into his chair. _This is nice._ He had not had a companion like this in many years, not since his Vane was dismissed. It was comfortable to sit there and listen to Belle read, tea and buttered toast at hand. It was something he could get used to. He did not know what it was to love, and he had never had a family, not really, but Adam thought that if he did, it would look something like this. _What if_ _ **this**_ _was my life, and not how it was before?_ He sighed, wistful. It would never be, it could not happen, and yet...

     Belle put the book down. “Are you all right? You keep sighing.”

     Adam straightened. “I'm sorry, I...my thoughts were wandering.”

     “Penny for them?”

     Adam blinked and hesitated. Did she really want to know? Belle's face was kind, expectant, and the words tumbled out of him in a rush. “Do you think that dreams can change? Can one want something for so long, and then decide it isn't worth it?”

     Belle knitted her brows together, really considering the question. “I believe our dreams grow and change with us. What we want as children may not be what we want as adults. Why?”

     Adam shrugged. “It's not important.”

     Belle studied him, but Adam did not speak again. She went back to reading aloud, the firelight dancing over her hair and face. Adam, listening with one ear, studied her surreptitiously. Why did he wish so much that he could go sit at her feet, take her hands in his, and tell her everything? Tell her that he was afraid, and so lonely, and that he wanted everything, _everything_ , to be different. Tell her that he wanted her, just as she was, that he admired her more than he could say for her stubborn kindness and love of learning. He bit back another sigh. It wasn't fair. She would never love him, and despite his lack of hope, he could almost, almost...

     “I'm going to bed,” he said abruptly, standing. “Good night, Belle.”

     She looked up at him, surprised, but did not protest. “Good night.”

     Adam hurried away, leaving the loveliest woman he had ever met sitting before the fire.

 

 

Author's Note: Thank you for all your lovely comments! I really appreciate them. Please let me know what you think of this chapter!

 

 


	14. Notebooks

**Chapter Fourteen: Notebooks**

 

     Belle stretched her feet out before her, towards the library fire. This was perhaps the third time that the Beast had fled from her, and she was puzzled. Belle knew that she had a talent for wrong-footing people, but he was taking it to an extreme. Mrs. Potts's voice echoed in her memory. _“You're making him think. I can't tell you how much good you're doing him.”_

     Belle smiled to herself. It interested her, how much the Beast had changed since the first time they had met. The Beast seemed to like her, which she had never expected, and he seemed to have let go of much of his anger, which was shocking. It seemed as though she was making headway in dispelling the thick blanket of despair that cloaked him. But Belle knew people too well to take the nameless creature's actions at face value. He had taken her father prisoner for no good reason. If he was going to change, he had to change in all aspects.

     It had been a good day, too, in spite of the rude letters that morning and the Beast's subsequent awkwardness. The cake had been a stroke of genius; she would have to make that a habit. She and the maids had also made good headway on cleaning the ballroom and the front hall, and Plumette had shown her the rest of the downstairs rooms, all of their furniture draped in dust cloths, to be tackled later. Tomorrow. Maybe she would get the Beast to help, if he were so inclined. He had been quite a help with the boxes of papers, though Belle suspected that that was less because of a need for tidiness and more because he didn't want her reading anything untoward of his. The thought of the stored letters led Belle back to the length of the curse. Years and years, he had said, and yet it had only been a year in the real world. How did that work?

     She wondered if the Enchantress knew what havoc her curse had caused upon these people. Had the staff really deserved to be cursed for standing aside and letting the Beast grow into a monster? And what had he done, to engage her wrath? Something about a rose, he had alluded to that first day. Belle shook her head. If the man who was now the Beast had been as terrible as those letters, as well as his own actions, had made him out to be, small wonder he had angered an Enchantress.

     Belle stood and stretched. It was late, and she had more pressing things to attend to than the nature of time and magic. Bed. Tomorrow was another day. The sooner she could solve this mystery, the sooner she could go home.

 _Home_. Belle's thoughts flashed to Maurice. She prayed that he was well and safe in Villeneuve, waiting for her. Home is wherever we are, he had always said when Belle was small and frightened in a new place. Belle had never made her home away from Maurice. Home could be anywhere; it could almost be-

     Belle pulled her thoughts away with great effort, and went to bed.

*

     Morning dawned cold and grey, the sun hidden behind a heavy layer of clouds. Belle rose and dressed in Madame's latest creation, a heavy apple green satin skirt and the first day's flowered jacket, three flannel petticoats underneath for warmth. Again Belle greeted a young lady in the mirror. A few more days and she would be used to this, especially if she spent the days lazing about as she had been doing. Not, of course, that she could technically call it lazing. She had baked, and read, and started to clean and organize the castle. But there was no method to it. _If I am going to stay here long_ , she realized, _I am going to have to have a schedule_.

     Breakfast was usually at nine, for the Beast was not an early riser, and Belle had been eating tea and biscuits in the library at dawn the last few days. It was funny to think that she had only been here for four days. It seemed far longer.

     “I need a plan,” she muttered to herself.

     The problem was that she was used to having her day planned nearly to the minute. There was always work to be done at home. Here, she could read for hours at a stretch, and while that was glorious, Belle needed something to work on. As it had been doing, her mind turned to the Beast. He was really the only project in the castle that the servants couldn't help her with.

     The cake in the library yesterday had been a stroke of genius; she would have to do that again. None of these fantastic creations like Lumiere had presented her with that first evening. Something homely, to remind him that there was good in the world. And no more letters! Belle grinned to herself as she walked into the library. That had _been_ awkward. At least he hadn't screamed and yelled. He had seemed more aghast at her reading them than anything else.

     What was it he had said? _They belonged to someone else, someone I do not wish to remember_. That was good. Belle was certain that she would not have liked the man in those letters, the man who _kept_ those letters as trophies, and she was halfway to genuinely liking the Beast. It pleased her that he no longer wanted to be the man he was before the curse. If he carried on the way he was going, they could even be friends.

     Plumette was in the library, swishing around over the tables, setting pens and inkpots to right. She waved her feathers at Belle when she came in.

     “Bonne matin, mademoiselle. Have you slept well?”

     “Fine, thanks,” Belle said. “Are we the only ones up?

     Plumette chuckled. “I'm afraid not. Cuisinier is cooking breakfast; Chapeau is laying the table, and Lumiere and Cogsworth are strategizing with Mrs. Potts.”

     “What about?”

     “I'm sure I cannot say. We've laid out your tea over here, mademoiselle.”

     Belle followed the maid to the fire in the north end of the library. There, on the table, was laid out a tea service, a tiny plate of oat biscuits alongside. Belle grinned. Just enough to whet the appetite; not enough to fill before breakfast. She really did like this castle, despite its strangeness.

     “Plumette, may I ask you a question? What is his name?”

     Plumette flitted down onto a footstool, lounging like a bird. “The Master's? I'm sure I cannot say.”

     “But you've known him all of his life,” Belle protested. “Surely he has a name.”

     “Of course he does, but he is dramatic and also something of a curmudgeon, and he insists that he is not worthy of being called by name,” Plumette replied.

     “That's...ridiculous,” Belle said.

     “I know, but you've seen the temper on him and I cannot- _will_ not-betray his trust over this. If you want to know his name, you'll have to either ask him outright or find out for yourself.”

     “And how would I do that?”

     “Well,” Plumette rose and flitted away to another corner. “This is where his old notebooks are. You might look to find it there.”

     “It would be a lot easier if you just told me,” Belle said, eyeing Plumette.

     “I know, but where would be the fun in that?” And Plumette chuckled.

 

*

     The box was indeed full of old notebooks, fine ones made of tooled leather and expensive paper. Belle thumbed through them, looking over the fine copperplate that filled page after page. There were essays on literature and history, thoughts on art, commentaries on music and society events and life in and out of the castle. He really did have an expensive education, Belle mused. But there was no sign of his name. Each essay was signed with a single “A”. This considerably narrowed the field, but otherwise did not give Belle much to go on.

     “Do you ever sleep?” came the Beast's amused voice.

     Belle looked over her shoulder at him, standing just inside the door. “Yes, sometimes,” she said. “Who is A?”

     The Beast blinked at her. “What have you found?”

     “Notebooks,” Belle replied, waving one at him again. “Nothing untoward, don't worry; just school work. Were they yours?”

     “Yes,” the Beast said, after a pause.

     “And what does A stand for?”

     The Beast skirted the table and came to stand on the other side. He reached for a notebook, not meeting Belle's eyes. “Apple.”

     Belle gave him a look. The Beast didn't meet her gaze; it was as though he could bear to let her know even the name of the man he had once been. Silence stretched between them. Belle changed tactics.

     “Some of these are rather good. I see your tutor thought so, too.”

     The Beast shook his head. “My tutors were always after me to do better. I didn't put much effort into most of my work. It...wasn't valued.”

     Belle mentally added the end of the sentence- _by my father._ What she wouldn't do to give that man the tongue-lashing he deserved! It was obvious to Belle that the boy who had written these essays had had a good head on his shoulders. The Beast seemed to think so, too, for he passed her a notebook with a shy little smile.

     “If you want to see a really heartfelt effort, look here. These are for the one tutor I really wanted to please.”

     Belle took the notebook with murmured thanks. She carried it down to breakfast with her, and read while the Beast made himself open sandwich after open sandwich, noting with some amusement that he was trying not to stare at her. Belle knew the nervousness of having someone else read your thoughts. But she was right; he had a good head on his shoulders, and could have been brilliant. The boy who had written these essays had been an arrogant young aristocrat with no real knowledge of the human heart. She rather thought that he could write them better now, for age and experience.

     “You were a very passionate student,” she said at last, closing the notebook. “I liked your spirited defense of Lancelot's actions.”

     “A good teacher will do that to you,” the Beast replied, trying not to look pleased.

     Belle shook her head. “A good teacher can only do so much. A student has to want to learn, first. You were clearly enjoying yourself, even if you were very young.”

     She couldn't be sure, but she thought the Beast might be blushing. He ducked his head, unsued to the praise. “I was only eighteen.”

     “And was that so very long ago?”

     He remembered their conversation of the previous day and shrugged. “Long enough.”

     “Hm.” Belle drank her coffee and contemplated him. “It's a puzzle, this place. I keep thinking I've begun to understand it, but then something happens to show me that I've got it all wrong.”

     “You should read the metaphysical poets. They'll have you questioning everything.”

     Belle laughed. “You'll have to introduce me to them. I've never read a metaphysical poet before.”

     The Beast snorted. “Perhaps you'll like them more than I did. They were Vane's-my tutor's-favorite. Only time he was boring was when he started on John Donne.”

     Belle grinned, still watching him over her coffee cup. “I've never met as passionate a reader as myself. It's very refreshing.”

     “Is it?”

     “Yes. All my life I've been bullied and mocked for being myself. Somehow I think you're the first person I've met who really understands that.”

     The Beast stared at her, and Belle felt a stab of worry that he would jump up and run away, as he seemed prone to doing when she made bold statements. But he did not.

     “I can show you where the Donne is shelved,” he said instead. “Whenever you're done with breakfast.”

     “Thank you.” Belle stood. “I wonder-will you use your expensive education to guide me? I'm trying to create a routine, and I think it would be best for me to spend part of the day studying. Perhaps I can even learn Greek.”

     The Beast smiled. “I can't help you with that, but yes. Of course. I-I can help design you a course of study, if you like.”

     Belle nodded. “I do like.”

     “Very well.”

     He stood, and moved towards the door, pausing to look around when Belle did not move to join him.

     “Aren't you going to offer me your arm?” she asked.

     Silence rang out, as though the entire castle was holding its breath. The Beast blinked at her for a long moment, then returned to her side, and offered her his arm. Belle took it with a smile.

     “Lead on, then,” she said, and the Beast led her out.

     Behind them, Lumiere and Cogsworth turned to each other with expressions of dumbfounded delight.

 

 

Author's Note: I'm back! Sorry for the break; it has been a very long and stressful couple of weeks for me. I'm going to try to get back to daily updates, but it may come in fits and starts at first. I hope you like this chapter, and please, as always, let me know what you think!

 


	15. Chagrin

**Chapter Fifteen: Chagrin**

 

     Adam stood behind Belle and silently cursed himself. How did one _design_ a course of study? The impulse to offer to guide her reading had been spontaneous; he had been so excited to share his books with her after she read-and even liked- his essays for Vane. Vane, his favorite tutor, who had returned to Oxford after being dismissed by the Prince de Courcy for allowing Adam to read Aphra Behn's _Oroonoko_.

     “What's it about?” Belle asked, standing at the base of the bookshelf ladder and looking at him expectantly.

     “Um, well, it's about an African prince sold into slavery,” Adam replied, “And the moral question of whether slavery as an institution is acceptable.”

     “Oh.” Belle went quiet, climbing the ladder.

     “It's not,” Adam said after a long moment, looking at her back. “I argued the point to my father, but he...he took exception to my thinking of anyone lesser than us as human, and dismissed Vane. I think he was glad to go. He'd have gone anyway; sooner or later they all did.”

     It was the longest speech Adam had made to Belle, offering any information about his past, his pre-curse life, and he bit his tongue to keep from spilling any more. She couldn't be interested in the past, in his selfish youth. But Belle was a continual surprise.

     “It must have been hard for you,” Belle said.

     “Well...yes, it was.” Adam hesitated; was she really interested? “There was a terrific row about it. Once he realized he was no longer employed here, Vane gave my father quite the tongue-lashing.” He grinned a little at the memory. “They stood ten feet apart and bellowed at each other, and the very next day Vane returned to England.”

     “Wow! What did he say?”

     “I don't know; I wasn't in the room.”

     No, he had been pressed to the door just outside, ear to the panel, listening to Vane tell his father that he was “ruining the boy” and that a prince must be raised to be a leader and an example, and not be an “impudent peacock with unlimited credit and a taste for obscenity”.

     “He's a good lad!” Vane had shouted. “He needs encouragement and loving-kindness, not the senseless abuse you heap on him! He's in danger of becoming a monster!”

     Something had shattered against the door at that point, and Adam had fled. That night Chapeau had put the poetry compendium on Adam's table, with a note from Vane apologizing for leaving him and a verse from Shakespeare: Polonius's speech to Laertes about being true to oneself. In his heartbreak, Adam had screamed at Chapeau to leave him alone, and slammed the door on him for good measure. But he had read the book, and Vane's message. Adam still had the note, tucked away in a secret drawer in his desk upstairs. Not that he had ever listened to the advice. It had been more important in those days to breathe. And look where it had gotten him.

      Still, it pleased Adam that the old tutor wasn't cursed with the rest of them. He took some comfort from knowing that his tutor had returned to his college in Oxford to teach, and had in no way suffered anything more than humiliation at the Prince de Courcy's hands. He had written to Cogsworth occasionally, telling him of doings in the city, and Cogsworth had had the habit of repeating the news, ostensibly to Lumiere, within Adam's earshot. Adam liked to imagine old Vane leading lectures and taking tea in his rooms at the university, a place he had always spoken of with great fondness. And in truth, Adam knew that Vane had been keen to go. Life in the Chateau de Courcy under the increasingly unstable Prince had been anything but pleasant.

     “Perhaps we ought to start with the Latin poets,” Adam said. “I don't know what they teach in peasant schools, so starting at the very beginning may be ideal.”

     Belle raised her eyebrows. “ _Peasant_ schools?”

     “Well, I mean, you know-” Her eyebrows were still raised; Adam floundered. “I, well, I mean-”

     “I'm not a peasant,” Belle said, her voice mild but cool. “I was born in Paris. I grew up in Versailles and Rouen and attended schools there. I've never lived on a farm in my life. Before coming to Villeneuve we never even lived in the countryside.”

     If he had had a sword, Adam would have fallen on it. He had committed the most basic of rudenesses by assuming what Belle's social status was. _How was I supposed to know?_ something inside him snarled. _Goodness is a choice_. “I-I apologize. I'm sorry, Belle. I thought...”

     Belle smiled a little. “You thought that I was poor, and therefore a peasant. I suppose there was logic in it. But no, my father is an artisan, a tinker and clock maker. An artist. We haven't been peasants for a couple of generations now.”

     Adam nodded, chagrined. “I'm sorry,” he said again, the words unfamiliar on his tongue but sincerely meant. “What sorted of learning would you like, then?”

     “It's all right,” Belle said. “I think...I rather enjoyed those English books you gave me. Maybe some histories?”

     This was safe ground; Adam went to the shelves and began to pull down histories of Europe. _Fool, fool, you idiotic fool_. He had offended her. He had reminded her that he had a higher rank than herself. _A prince is kind to everyone, regardless of status_ , he remembered his mother saying. When had she said that? He had forgotten it until this moment. Adam's lungs closed and for a moment he braced himself against the shelf, trying to drag in air.

     Belle put her hand on his arm.

     “Come now, it's all right,” she said, patting his wrist. “I'm not angry with you. It's all right.”

 _Breathe. In. Out_. Adam straightened. “Forgive me; sometimes my lungs stop. Here. This is an account of England from the Roman times through to the end of the previous century. This is Pepys' account of the Great Fire in London, and here is an account of explorers going to the Americas, and this is-”

     They soon had a stack of books nearly as tall as Adam resting on the table, organized by subject and what Adam thought was the best order to read in. Belle surveyed it with a grin. “I'd better get cracking,” she said. “Will you join me for cake this afternoon? I enjoyed that yesterday.”

     Somehow Adam did not boggle at her. “Yes, of course, I'd be delighted to.”

     Belle grinned at him, settling herself at the table and pulling a book and a stack of paper to her. “Very good. I'll see you soon, then.”

     Adam left her bending over the Pepys, half worried that she would find it bawdy. Pepys was a Londoner; there was not much of a filter on him. But then, Belle was a Parisian, and she had not been horrified by those letters yesterday. Not a peasant. Oh, God. Adam ducked into an alcove and put his hand to his chest.

     If he was honest with himself, and Adam was not used to being so, he wanted Belle to like him. He wanted to show her that he was not the monster he appeared, even if he had behaved so egregiously to her and her father before. He liked Belle, liked her more than he could believe possible. She was strong, and smart, and confident, and she made Adam want to be better. She would never love him, Adam knew that-women like Belle did not love monstrous spoiled princes-but all the same. He felt safe around Belle. She had not mocked him. There had been so few people in his life that Adam could trust and open up to; he couldn't bear to think that he had offended her so greatly. _I will do better. I will._

     He needed a book to take his mind off of it, something to read out in the rose garden. Where in the collection was he? Adam looked at the bindings; pulled a few of the books out. Ah. Thomas Malory, _Le Morte d'Arthur_. Well, why not? Arthur and his knights certainly knew a bit about wooing fair ladies. Not that he was going to woo Belle, whatever Lumiere said. There was no way that she would love him.

     But oh, if only there was.

 

 

Author's Note: I think we can all guess which scene we're coming up on. :-) On a historical note, Samuel Pepys' Diaries were not translated from code and published until the mid-nineteenth century, but I like them so well that I gave them to Belle to read. After all, what is the point of Eighteenth Century Fairy-tale if we can't bend a few publication dates? The diaries date from the seventeenth century, so I'd say we're safe. As always, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy the chapter! Please leave me a comment and let me know!

 


	16. Atlas

**Chapter Sixteen: Atlas**

 

     Belle leaned on her elbows, staring unseeing at the stack of books in front of her. The Pepys was fascinating, and she had read through his account of the Great Fire with interest, but skimming the books the Beast had chosen for her for a new topic had led her back to their conversation about her previous education that morning, and his reaction to it. She had never seen him so embarrassed, and over such a small thing. He had stopped breathing over it. The way he had grasped the library ladder as he struggled to get a breath in had alarmed Belle. How often did he feel like that? The poor Beast.

     It was new, and a bit alarming, how much she was beginning to like the Beast. There was something about him...Belle leaned on her elbows, thinking. He'd been such a monster that first day, such an unmitigated ass. But he was changing. All of his self-hatred was still there; she could see it in his face whenever he spoke of himself. But he was trying; she could see that, too. He was genuinely _trying_ to be good, reaching out to her with shy kindness that Belle had never experienced from a man before. The men she had known in Villeneuve, in Rouen even, had treated her as a creature to put on a pedestal, a little woman to cook and care for him the way they assumed she did for her father. Never mind that her father had given her the best education he could afford, that he had taught her his trade and that Belle was a skilled artisan in her own right. Men like Gaston had always tried to put Belle into the narrow space prescribed to common women.

     The Beast, from his actions, wouldn't dare to attempt such a thing. Even if he _had_ assumed that Belle was a peasant. It was as though he genuinely liked Belle for being exactly who she was. It was a pleasant feeling. If only she could figure out how to break the curse, maybe...

     Belle shook her head, banishing the thought before it even had a chance to form. Ridiculous. He was a prince, and princes did not take up with commoners, even if they were thrown together for company. Besides, just because he liked her did not mean-

 _Stop it_ , Belle told herself. _Read a book. Go make a cake. Stop thinking_. She snatched up a pen and began to scribble on the fine paper she had been taking notes on, doodling words and phrases. _Barely even friends. Unexpected_. Gradually verses began to form. Belle paused to read them.

_Just a little change/Small to say the least_

_Barely even friends/then somebody bends unexpectedly_

_Bittersweet and strange/finding you can change_

 

     It didn't quite scan; she would have to come back to it. Belle tossed the pen down and stood. She couldn't stay here or she would fret about her own emotions until lunch. She would go down to the kitchen and make a cake, then she would find the Beast. She would draw him into conversation. She would make him laugh. And she would forget these treacherous thoughts, once and for all.

     Downstairs, she found Cogsworth playing a game of solitaire by the front hall fire. The mantle clock was by himself and appeared quite content. He nodded at Belle as she approached.

     “How are you this morning, miss? Enjoying your reading?”

     “Yes, thanks,” Belle said. She hesitated. “Do you mind if I join you?”

     “Be my guest,” Cogsworth replied, and grinned a little at the memory of Lumiere's song and dance. “How may I be of service?”

     “I just wondered...He was telling me about an old tutor of his, Mr. Vane, and how he was dismissed for educating his student. I just wondered, were people often sent away from him? It's just that he seems to hesitant to make friends.”

     Cogsworth regarded Belle in silence for a long moment. “I suppose it can't hurt to tell you,” he said at last. “The master was not beloved of his father; I think that's become clear enough to you. The prince his father insisted he behave a certain way, and punished any behavior that did not conform to his ideals. The master learned to isolate himself from others, because as soon as he learned to love them, they were dismissed or sent away. We here...we wanted to keep our positions, and we wanted to provide for the boy as well we could, and so we let this behavior continue. We did not leave him, exactly, but we did abandon him. So you could say, I suppose, that he is used to being left behind, and used to hiding his true self.”

 _Used to being left behind._ Belle's heart cracked a little at that. “I think that he expected me to leave him behind when he saved me from the wolves.”

     “You can be sure that he did,” Cogsworth replied. “Though I for one am very grateful that you did not. He has a good heart, even if it is protected with lock and key and Cerberus at the gate.”

     Belle smiled a little. “He can't breathe. Why is that?”

     Cogsworth looked her straight in the eye. “Fear that he will never be good enough.”

     “Good enough for what?”

     “Everything.”

*

     How terrible, to be unloved by your father. How terrible, to be punished for being yourself. Belle wandered the castle, looking for the Beast and musing to herself. Part of her wanted to embrace him, to tell him that he was just fine, though she did not know how he would react to such an action. With the Beast you had to treat lightly; Belle was certain that the wrong word would cause him to retreat behind his mask of aloof arrogance. And small wonder. How terrible to have your very self mocked and condemned by the person who was supposed to love you best.

     Belle knew well how vital a father's love was. She longed for Maurice with every beat of her heart, wished more than anything that he was here with her. Somehow she knew that Maurice would know how to manage the Beast. Hadn't he always been there for her, to comfort every scraped knee or small trauma? Hadn't he always been careful to build her up? Sorrow weighed on Maurice, Belle knew that, but he had always been there to care for her, to help her. And the Beast's father had never even tried. Worse, he had deliberately torn his son down, until he was so wretched that an Enchantress had cursed him.

     Belle wondered about that Enchantress. Had she done what she did as a punishment, or because she thought it would help? And _how_ did you break the curse?

     “If you are looking for the Master, he's gone outside,” Mrs. Potts said when Belle made her way to the kitchen. “He often retreats to the colonnade. It's a very personal space for him, so if you do go out, tread lightly. It's around to the back of the castle, love, behind the large medieval turret.”

     Belle found her scarlet cloak and made her way outside.

     It was a cold, clear day, the blue sky stretching away over the hills beyond the castle. Belle went first to the stable, where she fed Philippe and apple and let him out to roam the gardens, greeting Cuir the head groom as she did. Philippe nuzzled Belle's neck and took himself off for a run, and Belle wandered the paths, making her way though the hedge mazes. She could see the top of the colonnade as she walked, garlanded with something white that did not appear to be snow. What was it?

     Roses. Dozens and dozens of white roses that grew along the columns from stout rose trees. White roses, which had somehow managed to survive the accursed winter, one of which Maurice had picked to bring to her. And sitting on a bench inside the circle of the colonnade, surrounded by the flowers so much so that he resembled a creature from a fairy story, was the Beast. Bending over a book, he was still and peaceful, his face open and absorbed. Clearly this another sanctuary, a place where he could be at peace. It was such an intimate scene that Belle almost slipped away unnoticed. But curiosity got the better of her.

     “What are you reading?”

     The Beast straightened, and snapped the book shut. “Nothing,” he said, covering it with his large paws.

     But Belle had seen the cover. “Guinevere and Lancelot?”

     “Well, actually, it's King Arthur and the Round Table. Knights and men and swords and things.”

     He was gruff, but not angry; Belle took this as a good sign and settled down on the bench beside him. “Still. It's a romance.”

     The Beast gave her a small grin. “All right. It's Malory, anyway, _Le Morte d'Arthur_. Did the Pepys bore you?”

     “Not at all; he was very interesting. I was just...fidgety.” She couldn't very well tell him that she had missed him, that she was growing more and more confused about him, and about herself.

     “That's understandable. One needs exercise.”

     “Yes.”

     They fell silent, not quite looking at each other. It was a comfortable silence, though, the sort that arose between friends. _Are we friends?_

     “I never thanked you,” Belle said, “for saving my life.”

     A flash of astonishment passed over the Beast's face. “Well, _I_ never thanked _you_ for not leaving me to be eaten by wolves.”

     Belle grinned at him. Gratitude had been the last thing either of them had been thinking about that night, so angry had they both been. How far they had come since that night, and it had only been five days.

     From the direction of the castle came a burst of laughter, the staff laughing and calling to each other. The Beast looked towards the sound, longing sweeping over his face. Belle's heart went out to him, sitting outside in the snow while the others laughed and played. _Always left behind_.

     “They know how to have a good time,” Belle said.

     “Yes.” For a moment the Beast looked down at his hands; then gave her a shy smile. “Sometimes, when I'm dining alone, I hear them laughing and pretend I am in the kitchen with them, joining in on the fun.”

     “You should!” Belle said. “Have you ever tried? Since you were an adult, I mean.”

     “Yes, but whenever I enter a room, laughter dies,” the Beast said. There was no anger in his voice, but a quiet resignation. Again Belle had the urge to hug him.

     “Me, too.” Seeing his surprise she added, “The villagers say that I'm 'a funny girl'. They don't mean it as a compliment.”

     “I'm sorry,” the Beast said. “Your village sounds terrible.”

     Belle smiled. “Almost as lonely as your castle. Any place where you aren't allowed to be yourself is bad.”

     For a moment the Beast was silent. Then, “And is it better, do you think, to try to adjust to what they want you to be? Or do you dare to stay true to yourself?”

     “Stay true to yourself,” Belle replied. “Always. Because if you try to become what others want you to be, you will never be happy, and you'll never succeed. My father taught me that.”

     “I wish I had your strength of character,” the Beast said. “I never did have the courage to take Polonius's advice.”

     Belle smiled. “It's not too late, you know.”

     “Is it not?”

     “It's never too late to be true to yourself. You just have to find the people who love you for being you, and ignore the ones who don't.” She thought back to her conversation with Agathe, the evening the villagers had ruined her laundry. “Souls that are meant to be...friends will reach out to each other. And those who are worthy of you will never tear you down, just as you would never abuse them.”

     The Beast was staring at her, his blue eyes wide. “You believe that?”

     “I do. Yes. Of course, you have to work hard to find those people.”

     The Beast was silent for a long moment, then turned to her with a small smile. “What do you say we run away?”

     “What?”

     He stood, tucking his book under one arm. “Come on, I have something to show you that I think you'll like.”

     Bemused, Belle followed him back into the castle, up towards the library. The library, which was quickly becoming the center of their strange little world. The Beast led her to a distant alcove, and fetched out a book that had been stuffed down behind a row of others, as though hidden in a fit of pique. It was beautiful, its covers made of gilded metal and closed with two clasps.

     “Here's another little gift from the Enchantress,” he said, opening the clasps and thumbing through the pages. He found the one he wanted and set it on a stand. “A book that truly allows you to escape.”

     A map of the globe was lay open before Belle, the world embellished with ships and sea monsters, the continents strange shapes in the indigo ocean. And all over the paper flashed and swarmed waves of gold, living magic that lurked in the pages.

     “How amazing!” Belle said, bending over it.

     The Beast shrugged. “It was her cruelest trick of all. It's just another curse. The outside world has no place for a-a creature like me. But it can for you.”

     He held a hand out to Belle, asking for her trust. Belle gave it to him. The Beast placed her hand on the atlas, palm down. The magic felt soft and warm, smooth as water and soft as velvet. Alive.

     “Think of the one place you've always wanted to see,” the Beast said, taking his hand away. “Now see it in your mind's eye, and feel it in your heart.”

     Belle closed her eyes. The one place she had always wanted to see? She knew the place well, had seen it in a thousand sketches, had had it painted to her in words, and had seen it placed in a music box. If she could only see it in real life, maybe she would know-maybe she would understand...

     Wind blew up from the pages, ruffling Belle's hair. She felt herself being pulled forward, her feet lifting off the library floor, being pulled forward and away. And suddenly, she was afraid. _Take him with us, please don't let me do this alone_.

     Then her feet met the floor, and she was no longer in the castle.

 

Author's Note: Had enough of all the emotion yet? Buckle up, we're about to enjoy some serious yearning! As ever, thanks for reading and please let me know what you think in the comments!

 


	17. Paris

**Chapter Seventeen: Paris**

 

     Adam's feet hit the floor; he stumbled a little and put his arms out to steady himself. His heart pounded; he had not expected Belle to bring him with her. Really, he had expected her to go home to her father, the man she had sacrificed herself for. But they were not in a small cottage in Villeneuve-far from it.

     The room was small, and dim, and swathed in deep layers of dust. A creaky rumbling filled the air; they seemed to be in a windmill.

     “Where have you taken us?” Adam asked.

     Belle was staring around the small space, taking in the dust and abandoned furniture, the faded murals on the walls. “Paris.”

     “Oh, I love Paris!” Adam exclaimed, making for the window. Paris, with its lights and people, its theaters and opera and endless swirl of entertainment. Paris, which hosted some of the finest bookshops in Europe, and was home to the finest artists and thinkers. Paris, where he had always enjoyed himself and been free from the iron band that compressed his chest. Adam looked out at the cathedral in the distance. If he judged correctly, they were in Monmartre village above the city. “What would you like to see first? Notre Dame? The Champs Elysée?”

     Belle seemed not to hear him. “It's so much smaller than I imagined.”

     Adam tore his gaze away and turned back to Belle. She stood quite still in the middle of the room, gazing around her with wide eyes. The quiet awe in her voice surprised Adam and he struggled to see the room with her eyes, to wipe away the layers of dust and dirt and see the beauty within. It had been beautiful once, and could be again with a good cleaning and a coat of paint on the murals and a little light. Whoever had lived here had left in a hurry. Mildewing bedclothes still covered the mattress and pillows on the little bed, and the room was littered with papers. Belle picked one of them up-a sketch of a sleeping baby.

     “I was born here,” she said. “This place...it was where my father was happy, before whatever happened...happened. My parents lived here after they married. They rented it for a livre a month, and Papa traveled into the city to work. All of his happiest memories happened here.”

     Adam looked around the room again. It was tiny; how could two people be happy living in such close quarters? They must have loved each other a great deal. The thought tore at his heart. Belle moved about, picking up papers and examining them. She bent to fetch something off the floor. It rattled and Adam realized that it was a baby's toy in the shape of a red rose, which had been resting on a prayer book. It was of fine workmanship as far as he could see; Belle's parents must have loved their child very much to spend money on such a thing. Adam looked at the walls, covered in fanciful murals, at the table on which the brittle remains of dead flowers lay. There had been joy here, and now only sorrow pervaded the little space.

     “What happened to your mother?” he asked, realizing for the first time that Belle had never, not once, mentioned her.

     “It was the one story Papa could never bring himself to tell me.” Belle sat down on the ruined bed, looking at the rattle. “I knew better than to ask.”

     There was such sadness in her voice that Adam fought the urge to cross the room and take Belle into his arms. He cast about the room, looking for some clue, something out of place that would give an indication of what had happened to bring such ruin on a loving family home. And he found it, almost immediately, an out of place object, a thing of nightmares, lying abandoned on a chair.

     “A doctor's mask,” he murmured, picking it up. His heart began to pound again, from horror this time. Belle stood and came over to him, peering at the cracked leather mask. Adam raised his eyes to hers. “Plague.”

     Plague, which had decimated Paris when it last swept through the city. So many people had died, abandoned by their loved ones. Everyone knew that there was no cure for the disease. Had Maurice willingly left his wife's side, or had he been torn away, forced to choose between the love of his life and his infant daughter? Belle turned away and stumbled back to the bed, to kneel beside a cradle adjacent to it. From everything that she had said of her father, from everything that Adam had seen, Maurice would never have forgiven himself for the choice he had made. And Adam had locked him up and taken his daughter prisoner, over a flower. He felt sick.

     “I'm sorry that I ever called your father a thief,” Adam said, and Belle looked up at him, tears shining in her eyes.

     “Let's go home,” she whispered.

     Home. Adam put the mask down on the chair and came around to her. Home, to the castle that was their prison. She wanted to go home.

     “Come, Belle,” he said, taking her by the elbows and helping her stand. “Come on, now.”

     He felt the magic take them, lifting them out of the crumbling attic, carrying them back to the castle library. For a moment all was cobalt and gold, and then the air cleared, and they were home. Adam realized that he was still holding Belle, and that she was leaning on him.

     “Come now,” he said again, trying to keep his voice gentle. “Come sit down.”

     He guided her to a chair by the fire and set her in it, noticing as he did that she was still clutching the rose rattle. She trembled under his hand. Adam looked around and fetched over a throw rug to wrap around her shoulders. “I'll fetch Mrs. Potts; something hot will do you good.”

     “It's all right,” Belle whispered. “Please, I want to be alone for a while.”

     “Of course, I-of course.” Adam retreated to the door; looking back, he saw Belle put her hands to her face. He slipped out and closed the door behind him.

     Plague. Her mother had died of plague. Of all the terrible things...Adam's own mother had died of a lingering fever, attended to until the end by doctors and Mrs. Potts. Adam had never left her side. How terrible to leave your beloved alone, to have to take your child and flee before the incurable illness, knowing that she was at home, dying all alone. Adam made his way outside, back to the rose colonnade. How had Maurice borne it?

 _He had no choice_. Adam sighed, thinking of Belle as a baby. Would he have made the same decision? He hoped to never find out.

     The roses nodded at him, bobbing in the wind. White roses, for peace. Adam reached out and plucked one, then another, and another. He had never picked these flowers before, but he did now, a great armful that he carried inside and handed to Chapeau.

     “Mademoiselle Belle is feeling unwell and may take dinner in her rooms tonight,” Adam told the startled aide. “Please would-would put these in a vase and take them to her? Thanks, Chapeau.”

     He walked away, leaving Chapeau surprised and startled at his use of please and thank you, and at the roses in his arms. But Adam would have given Belle all of the roses in the world if it made her feel better. It did not occur to Adam at all to be surprised by that.

 

 

Author's Note: I do feel sorry for Maurice, forced to make such an awful decision. Bouts of the plague in Europe were winding down by the 18th century, but they were still devastating, with people literally leaving loved ones to die from it. As always, thanks for reading and please let me know what you think in the comments!

 


	18. Family

**Chapter Eighteen: Family**

 

     Belle sat before the fire in the little drawing room, staring into the flames. It was late, or perhaps very early, but still she could not sleep. She couldn't get the little dusty room in Paris out of her mind, or the doctor's mask in the Beast's hand. _Plague_. Her mother had died of plague. The horror of it made Belle cold. To be left to die was bad enough, but she couldn't imagine what her father endured, leaving mama there alone.

     How did he live with himself for it? Belle's heart went out to her father. Maurice was the kindest, gentlest man she knew, and had always carried sorrow in his heart. But he had never let it make him bitter. His fear and sadness made more sense to her now. Belle had always suspected that something terrible happened to her mother; she had just never imagined what.

     It had been difficult to think after the Beast had brought her home. He had left her alone at her request, and after having a good cry by the library fire, Belle had made her way to her room. Madame de Garderobe had been sleeping, and no one had bothered Belle except to bring her up some dinner (Mrs. Potts) and a vase of white roses (Chapeau). She had eaten the former and set the latter on her dressing table, putting her face against the soft white blossoms and inhaling their familiar scent. White roses, for peace. A gift from the master of the castle.

     She hadn't felt up for conversation, but had spent the rest of the evening pacing and thinking, trying to make sense of her emotions, until suddenly the opulent bedroom had seemed too close and confined, and she had made her way downstairs.

     Belle shifted in front of the fire. It was small, stirred up from the coals and already half-dead; the staff were long abed and there were no logs left to add to it. Belle didn't really mind, though the cold was beginning to get to her. She had changed into her nightdress and dressing gown a while ago, in an attempt to settle down. Pity there wasn't a blanket in this room, like there was up in the library. She'd have to remedy that tomorrow. Belle sighed, wondering what time it was, and jumped, as the door creaked open.

     “Is someone there?” the Beast sounded guarded, as though expecting an intruder.

     “Just me,” Belle said, leaning around her chair. “Are you still up?”

     “Yes,” the Beast said. He stood hesitating in the doorway. “I usually don't sleep early. Forgive me, I didn't realize you were using this room.”

     “I'm hardly using it,” Belle replied. “I was just...thinking. Join me?”

     The Beast stepped forward. She saw that he had removed his coat and wrapped himself in a velvet banyan, like a homely philosopher. His face was kind, concerned.

     “How are you feeling?” he asked.

     Belle felt obscurely sheepish to be seen like this, in such a vulnerable state. She sensed that the Beast would leave her now, if she asked him to, just as he had left her alone that afternoon and ensured she got her dinner. But suddenly, Belle did not want to be alone anymore. She wanted him to stay with her, the way she had stayed with him when he was injured, that first night.

     “I'm just thinking of my father,” she said. “He's always carried this secret sorrow. He could never tell me what happened to mama. I don't think he ever forgave himself for leaving her there, not really.”

     “He had to,” the Beast said, sitting down in a nearby chair. “He had to protect you.”

     Belle looked at her hands. “He's _always_ protected me. But I think a part of him died with her. He's never really been able to let her go. You should see our home; it's full of images of her.”

     The Beast smiled a little. “She must have been wonderful.”

     “Yes,” Belle said. “I've always wished I knew her. I was just a baby when she died, you see. It's always been Papa and me, and I never really minded, but I always wished...”

     “It is hard to replace a mother's love,” the Beast replied. “Even when your father loves you dearly.”

     They fell silent, looking into the fire. Belle rubbed her arms and shivered. The Beast looked over at her, and after a moment's hesitation, stood and removed his velvet banyan.

     “Here. It's cold; you need this more than I.” He held it out to Belle and she took it, surprised, with murmured thanks. More and more he surprised her with his gentleness. Belle wrapped the banyan around herself. It was warm from his body, and so wonderfully soft and comfortable. It felt bizarrely intimate to be wearing his clothes, and yet... To cover her slight embarrassment, she spoke again.

     “You speak of grief with familiarity.”

     “Yes, well, I lost my mother when I was ten,” the Beast replied. “It was a fever. I had it first and she nursed me back to health, only to fall ill herself some weeks later. My father did not grieve overmuch-I don't think he ever really loved her-but I was devastated.”

     “Oh, I'm so sorry,” Belle breathed. She couldn't imagine his pain. Losing your mother was a terrible thing, but to know her before her death, to love her dearly and watch her die, struck Belle as a tragedy. “Did you blame yourself?”

     The Beast looked surprised at her question. “Yes, of course. Wouldn't you, if your parent had contracted their final illness from you?”

     The words smacked Belle somewhere in the solar plexis; for a moment she couldn't breathe. “I'm sure it wasn't your fault. Illness is contagious-”

     “I know that now,” the Beast's voice was bitter. “I did not know it then, and my father did very little to disabuse me of the notion.”

     Belle reached out and took his hand. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that happened to you.”

     The Beast stared at her hand, tiny in his. “Forgive me, I should be the one comforting you.” He cleared his throat, but did not release her hand. Belle smiled a little.

     “It's all right.”

     For a while they sat in silence in the dying firelight. It was nice to sit like this, Belle thought, with the Beast's hand in hers. Comforting. He had changed so much from the monster he was that first day, or rather, she understood him now. Her heart went out to him, denied the parental love he so desperately craved, denied all affection. No wonder he became so bitter and mean and awful. She remembered his words in the little attic. _I'm sorry that I ever called your father a thief_. Belle shifted in her chair.

     “I...keep thinking about Papa. How he must have felt leaving her,” she said. “I think part of him never left that room.”

     She thought of the drawings and sketches and paintings that have filled their various homes over the course of her lifetime. All of the little attic, of her mother holding Belle as a baby. Tears pricked at her eyes; she drew her hand back to wipe them away.

     “Belle,” the Beast said. “Do not blame him. He chose to save you. He chose to live. I remember that sickness. We didn't go up to Paris that year in order not to catch it. Plumette's family all died in it; she came to us shortly after. The choices we make during plague times must never be held against us. Your father loves you, and he wanted to keep you safe.”

     Belle looked up at him through her tears. “I know. It's just so sad.”

     The Beast made to pat her arm, and seemed to think better of it. “You should go to bed. Sleep helps, I have found. I'm sorry that everyone is abed or you could have a hot milk to help you relax.”

     “That's all right, I can always make it myself.” Belle stood, the velvet banyan gathering in folds around her feet. She wondered if she ought to give it back to him. “What...what was your mother's name?”

     “Maria-Eleanor,” the Beast said. “She was English. And your mother?”

     “Marianne,” Belle said. For a moment they smiled at each other. Then, “Good night, and thank you. For showing me.”

     “You're welcome,” the Beast said. “Thank _you_ , for helping me to realize that not all fathers are awful.”

     “Most of them are quite nice,” Belle said. She hesitated; it was on the tip of her tongue to ask him if she could fetch Maurice here, but her courage failed her at the last moment. “Good night.”

     “Good night, Belle.”

 

 

 Author's Note: Understanding continues to grow between our two book nerds. Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment and let me know what you think. 

 


	19. Conference

**Chapter Nineteen: Conference**

 

     Adam followed the sound of laughter to the ballroom. He had been on his way to return Le Morte d'Arthur to the library, having spent the morning in the little drawing room, lazing about with a plate of cookies and a book to keep him occupied. Belle had slept late, weary from yesterday's emotional drain, and when she had finally appeared in the dining room, it was dressed in her old clothes and with her hair tied back.

     “I need to move about,” she had said, helping herself to coffee and rolls. “If I sit still I'll fret, so I'm going to finish cleaning. The girls and I are going to polish the chandeliers in the ballroom.”

     It had taken Adam a moment to realize that by “the girls” Belle had meant Plumette and the other maids.

     “Are you sure you want to do that?” He thought of the chandeliers, shrouded for so long in dustsheets. There must be thousands of crystals on each of them. They had been expensive; he had had to raise the taxes to afford them. Adam winced at the memory.

     “Yes, physical work is good for the spirits,” Belle said. “And the mind. I've been entirely too lazy, reading all day long. Some work will do me good.”

     True to her word, she had gone off after breakfast, leaving Adam to fend for himself. Adam didn't know why this amused him. In the past, he would have been deeply offended if a guest had spent the day ignoring him. Belle expected him to keep himself entertained, and did not give him the chance to be offended. Belle, he reflected, did not pander to his long-neglected vanity, but went about living her own life. He found that he quite liked this about her.

     And so he had settled down in the little drawing room, with Chapeau occasionally checking. It had been pleasant, but now the book was finished and the cookies eaten, and Adam felt at loose ends. He had grown used to spending time with Belle, which fact both pleased and alarmed him. He was not used to liking anyone, much less-

     He shook his head. Better not to think like that. Belle would leave eventually, and he could not take her presence for granted. Even if he already did.

     At the foot of the staircase, Adam paused, hearing the laughter in the ballroom. Music spilled through the open doors, Cadenza playing a riotous melody. Adam could hear the maids' giggles, Plumette's merry cackle, and Belle's own laugh, round and joyous. Longing tugged at Adam's heart; they were having such fun. For a moment he wondered what would happen if he were to cross the hall to the ballroom, to go through those doors and join them. To reach out. _You should_ , Belle had said yesterday. Adam took a deep breath. Well, then.

     He went to the ballroom doors and looked in. Belle, Plumette, and some of the other maids were dancing what looked like a reel, laughing, as Cadenza played for them. One of the ceiling musicians, a piper, had joined in. The dancers galloped about, breathless and laughing. Adam stood at the door, smiling a little. Belle was so beautiful, spinning in her boots, her face alight. So physical work had helped her after all. Good. Adam liked it when she smiled.

     The ballroom, too, looked glorious. It had once been one of Adam's favorite rooms in the castle, all gilt and gold and crystal, full of beautiful people dancing the night away. Adam felt a pang; he loved dancing, and hadn't done it in years.

     “It looks wonderful, doesn't it?” Belle called.

     Adam started; he hadn't realized she'd noticed him. “It does; I was just thinking that.”

     Belle stopped dancing and came over to him, a grin lighting up her face. “We polished the crystals. It's only taken us all day. Luckily Maestro Cadenza kept us entertained.”

     Adam smiled at her. “You're making _everything_ look so beautiful. We ought to have a dance tonight.”

     As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Adam cursed himself. What had come over him? Belle would never love him, never want to dance with him, creature that he was. _But she held your hand last night_ , a tiny voice inside him whispered. _And she's smiling now._

     “Yes, all right,” Belle said. “I'd like that. Tonight?”

     “Um,” Adam managed. “Yes. If you want to, I mean, don't feel like you must-”

     “I know,” Belle replied. “I'll have to ask Madame de Garderobe what one wears to a dance. Shall we say eight o'clock?”

     “Yes, all right,” Adam said. “I-I just, I'll...see you later, then.”

     And he turned and fled, leaving Belle grinning after him.

     A _dance_. At eight o'clock tonight, in the ballroom that he had not entered since that woman cursed him. Adam fled to the West Wing, thinking he was going to die. He couldn't breathe. _What_ had he been _thinking_? Creatures didn't get to have dances, they didn't get to have hope or love or friendship. Belle would never love him, _could_ never love him, and yet he had asked her to dance. What kind of a fool was he?

     The kind who could almost begin to hope, who could almost say he-

 _No. She will never love you. Stop it_.

     Adam sank down onto the outside floor of his balcony, forcing himself to breathe in the icy winter air. _In, out. In. Out_. Belle, who at least did not hate him, had agreed to dance with him. She had shown him her parents' first home; talked with him, laughed with him. She had held his hand last night, for a few minutes. Could they possibly be friends? Adam didn't know what to think about her. He felt like a fool.

     Adam had never had any real hope that the curse would be broken. In the early days he had believed that someone, one of the women who had shared his riotous days and debauched nights perhaps, would come and admit true love for him and save him from the curse. But no one ever came, and Adam had found himself remembering the way they all fled when the Enchantress revealed herself, leaving him alone. They had only ever loved the rich and elegant Prince de Courcy, who made the King laugh and never wore the same suit twice and lavished expensive presents on people, as though he could buy their affection. He drew as deep a breath into his stone lungs as he could. None of them would have danced with him in this form. None of them had really cared for him, because Adam had never let them see his inner self, his true self. Somehow, somewhere along the way, he had relaxed his defenses around Belle. He couldn't put his finger on when, but somehow he had grown to like her enough to care what she thought, how she felt. If he was honest with himself, Adam could even say that he-

 _No. She tolerates you because she has to_ , he told himself. _Stop hoping; you're beginning to sound like Lumiere_.

     “Master?” Chapeau stood at the broken window, looking out at him, askance as a hat stand could be. “Should I be concerned?”

     Adam realized that he was dangling his feet out over a two hundred foot drop, and hastily scooted backwards into the room. “No, Chapeau, I was just...trying to breathe. Have you heard what I've done?”

     “Mademoiselle Belle said something about a dance?”

     “I _asked her to dance_!” Adam wailed, and for a moment felt like an awkward teenage boy. “And she said _yes!_ ”

     “Oh.” For a moment Chapeau was silent. Adam couldn't be sure, but he thought the hat rack might be smiling. “I'll draw you a bath, and fetch Lumiere.”

     Adam allowed himself to be led to the washroom and put into the bath. Chapeau handed him a bar of peppermint soap and vanished to find Lumiere, returning in a moment with an entire entourage, Cogsworth and Plumette and even Mrs. Potts with Chip following him into the washroom. Adam, hiding behind the bath curtain, scrubbed at his fur, wincing over his mostly-healed wounds, and tried to explain what he had done without breaking down into tears.

     “But this is perfect!” Lumiere exclaimed. “The rose has only four petals left, which means tonight you can tell her how you feel.”

     For a moment Adam thought he was going to die. He sluiced himself off with hot water, then stood and shook himself dry, soaking Lumiere. “I feel like a fool,” he snapped. “She will never love me!”

     “Nonsense,” Mrs. Potts said. “The two of you have become good friends.”

     “Yes, but that doesn't mean-”

     “Don't worry, Ad-master,” Lumiere said. “She is the One.”

     Adam snatched his dressing gown from Chapeau with more force than he had intended, and caught his aide before he could tumble over. “I wish you'd stop saying that! There is no 'One'.”

     He sank into the chair before his mirror, the only mirror left in the castle, and tried not to cringe away from his reflection. _Not so bad_ , Belle had said. _Not so bad_.

     “You care for her, don't you? Then woo her with beautiful music and romantic candlelight.”

     “Yes, and when the moment's just right-” Plumette swished her feathers and chuckled.

     “Don't be ridiculous,” Adam snapped. “I can't do that; she would laugh me to scorn.”

     “Oh, come now,” Cogsworth said. “Belle would do no such thing. She's the first young lady to really catch your attention in years who hasn't been a simpering sycophant, and she is not cruel. You do her an injustice to assume otherwise.”

     Mrs. Potts was nodding. “He's right, Adam. Belle is a good girl, and she _likes_ you. Just stop being so nervous and tell her how you feel.”

     “But-”

     “Now you listen to me, young man,” Mrs. Potts said, and Adam swallowed his protest. “All these years we've been at your side, counting on you to free us when we had no reason to hope that you would. We were just as responsible for your bad behavior as your father was, because we were too afraid to protect you from him. We loved you, but we didn't love you nearly enough, and that _ruined_ you. But since Belle came here, we've seen your walls come down and your heart thaw, and we've seen our dear boy come back to us. All these years, we loved you in spite of yourself. I can tell you now that we love you exactly for who you are _right now_. You have a real chance here, Adam, even if you won't believe it, and so tonight you will tell Belle that you care for her, because if you don't I promise you, you'll be drinking cold tea for the rest of your days!”

     Adam stared at her. “You...love me?”

     “Yes!” they shouted at him, varying amounts of exasperation in their voices.

     “Since the day you were born,” Mrs. Potts said.

     “Since your mother presented you to me,” Cogsworth added.

     “Since we became friends when I first came here,” said Plumette.

     “And since you were six and asked me to teach you to juggle,” Lumiere said.

     “Always,” said Chapeau. “You must know that, Prince Adam. We loved your mother, and we have always loved you. And you are more her son than you _ever_ were your father's.”

     Adam stared at them all, standing around him, his heart pounding. His throat closed, not from panic this time, but from joy so profound he thought he might cry. They loved him. It was not the kind of love that could break the curse, but it was more than he had ever expected to receive from anyone. For a moment his vision blurred.

     “I-thank you,” he said. “Thank you, my friends.”

     “Come now,” Lumiere said, “We have a dance to prepare you for! Let's start with the hair; women love nice hair.”

     “I'll take the fingers and toes,” Mrs. Potts said, pouring hot water into Chip's teacup.

     The little teacup hopped over to Adam. “I like you,” he said, as Chapeau took a brush to Adam's mane, “even if you're a bit shouty sometimes.”

     Adam grinned. “Thanks, Chip.”

     For a long time they brushed and snipped and polished, pulling Adam this way and that. No make up, Plumette said, hovering in the air before him. It would set his fur at a disadvantage. No make-up and no wig. No, a simple plait would do, and a groomed beard. There. Perfect. Then she and Chapeau vanished, returning a while later with a royal blue suit trimmed in gold, as beautiful as anything he had worn as a man. Adam put it on, first the soft new linen shirt, then the blue breeches, the gold-embroidered waistcoat, the fine lace cravat, and at last the jacket. With each article donned, Adam felt more and more human, more like himself, or rather, like the self he wanted to be. Adam de Courcy, who loved books and dancing and fashion, who took good care of his people and who had friends, family even, who loved him. More his mother's son than his father's. Adam ran his paws over the gorgeous silk coat and found himself smiling.

     “Thank you,” he said to the staff. “I can't thank you enough. And I-I'll do my best tonight. I'll try to tell her...”

     “Just be yourself,” Mrs. Potts said. “Belle likes you for who you are. She wouldn't have agreed to dance with you otherwise.”

     “It's time,” Cogsworth said, as he had that last fateful night. “Good luck, Prince Adam.”

     Adam nodded, and walked towards the door. He took a deep breath. _They are counting on me_.

     He walked down the stairs, towards the ballroom and Belle.

 

 

Author's Note: So yeah, writing this made me cry. I hope you all like it. Please leave me a comment let me know!

 


	20. Dance

**Chapter Twenty: Dance**

 

     Who knew, Belle reflected, that creating a court dress could be such work? Apparently there were Rules to be followed, depending on the time of day and the occasion involved, detailing what to wear, down to the color and shape of the frock. Belle, who had dressed for dinner on perhaps three occasions in her life before coming to the castle, found it all fascinating.

     “The right clothes,” Madame de Garderobe had explained when Belle came running to her about the dance, “will not only tell the world about you, but give you the armor to go out into it unafraid. Beware of people who tell you fashion is for feather-headed fools, _picina_. They are both jealous and wrong. Fashion is powerful, and oh, such fun!”

     “But I'm not a princess,” Belle protested. To dress as a young lady was one thing; Belle wasn't quite certain what to think about Madame's lessons.

     “And your point is? You are a _woman_ , carina, and a beautiful one. Embrace it. Now, what colors would you like? Pink is always an excellent choice. A deep rose would suit your complexion wonderfully! Or perhaps purple? Purple like the lily, with gold petticoats for contrast!”

     Belle ran her hands over the fabrics Madame was flinging at her. Pinks and scarlets and purples, none of which really suited Belle's fancy. She had never liked the brighter shades, always preferring softer blues and greens and creams. She picked up the gold silk that Madame had suggested for petticoats. Gold, like the sun in the early morning. The sun, rising in the East. Belle grinned.

     “What about this silk?” she asked, holding up the gold. “It suits my complexion, don't you think?”

     Madame de Garderobe took the golden square in one wooden hand and held it to Belle's face. “Ah, yes, beautiful! A golden gown to dance away the night in! Yes, perfect!”

     “I don't think we'll be dancing all night,” Belle said. “For one thing, I like getting up early.”

     There was also the fact that the Beast had looked most horrified with himself after he had asked her to dance. It was almost as though he had expected her to be shocked and disgusted by the idea. Belle shook her head, thinking about it. He had raced away, and Plumette had raced after him, but not before pausing to crow her delight in Belle's face.

     “A _dance_!” she had cried. “Oh, wonderful Belle! Oh, I knew you would be good for him!”

     And she had flown away to spread the news, leaving Belle alone in the ballroom.

     “Is there anything anyone wants to tell me?” Belle had called, but no one replied.

     And so Belle had retreated to her bedroom and Madame de Garderobe and her lessons in fashion. The wardrobe had her out of her clothes and into new petticoats and stays straightaway, and Belle, after getting over her initial surprise at the intricacies of Fashion, began to enjoy herself. There was something fun about designing a gown. Belle had never considered herself particularly beautiful, but it was fun to dress in a way that enhanced her best self. They created the dress layer by layer. First the underskirts, in lighter shades of yellow silk, so fine that it almost felt weightless. Then the dress itself, as golden as the dawn, with a smocked stomacher and sleeves that ended in flounces at Belle's elbows, like bright summer flowers. Belle pinned her hair back and twirled for Madame.

     “Oh! Beautiful!” Madame said, “But something is missing. Jewelry! Diamonds, perhaps, or opals.”

     “No,” Belle said, “that's really too much. Haven't you got something simple? Just a necklace, perhaps?”

     Madame thought about it for a moment, then nodded. From one of her drawers she took a velvet box and handed it to Belle. Inside was a simple collar necklace, with a pendant. Belle peered at it; it seemed to be a family crest: a tree and crown and rose set in a circle made of two letters. D and C. What did they stand for?

     “This was given to me for safekeeping,” Madame de Garderobe said. “Take it. It suits you.”

     “I'll bring it back,” Belle said, fastening the clasp around her neck.

     “I know,” Madame said. “I'm only sorry I cannot give you better dancing shoes.”

     Belle grinned, swishing her skirts. She had traded her boots for a ladies' soft heels, but apparently these were not dancing shoes. “It's fine, really; you've done more than enough for me. Thank you.”

     There was not much left to do. Belle brushed and dressed her hair, leaving a few curls to tumble about her shoulders, and brushed her face with a bit of loose powder from the dressing table. There were bottles of scent, too, and she chose one that smelled of violet and bergamot and jasmine, like a garden in the summertime. Somewhere in the castle, a clock chimed eight. Belle took a deep breath, suddenly nervous. It was time.

     She slipped out of her room and walked towards the front hall, butterflies filling her stomach. She liked dancing, and had so rarely had a chance to do it. She wondered if the Beast was nervous, and if he would really want to dance with her. He _was_ a prince, after all, or had been, and she was just a villager, an artist's daughter. But she liked him. _Yes_ , Belle thought, _that's it. I do like him. And what's more, I think he likes me_. That, at least, was promising. She took a deep breath to steady herself, and turned onto the staircase.

     The Beast stood there, not quite at the landing, looking up at her. And he was resplendent. Belle was startled; she had never seen him in anything but his worn blue coat. But there he stood, main brushed and plaited back, beard trimmed, decked out in gold-embroidered blue silk, looking as human as a creature could. Belle moved towards him, watching him take in her yellow gown. His blue eyes widened and crinkled in amusement, and Belle was pleased that he had gotten the joke.

     “Hello,” she said, meeting him on the landing.

     “Hello, Belle,” he said, shyly. “You look beautiful.”

     “Thank you,” she said. “You look nice, yourself.”

     He ducked his head, pleased. “Will you join me in the ballroom?”

     Belle took his arm and let him guide her down the staircase, surprised at how breathless she felt all of a sudden. Breathless, and absolutely certain that this was exactly right. The Beast led her into the ballroom, looking around in amazement. Belle followed his eyes and grinned; apparently the servants had hurried to finish polishing the place after she had gone to prepare. Lit candles fluttered in all of the chandeliers, and in sconces on the walls. Maestro Cadenza stood on the platform to one side, playing a gentle tune, accompanied by the ceiling musicians Belle had met that morning. Lumiere and Cogsworth stood with him, watching unobtrusively, and Belle grinned at them. She wondered just how many other servants were watching them.

     The Beast led Belle further into the room and hesitated, looking at her. It dawned on Belle then that he was far more nervous about this than she was, that something far more important than a mere dance was happening. She met his eyes, his beautiful eyes, gave him an encouraging smile, and bowed, spreading her skirts out around her. The Beast bowed back, as deeply as though she were the queen of France, and gave her another helplessly shy look. Belle held her hands out to him, palm up.

     “Come,” she said, smiling. “Will you dance with me?”

     The Beast put his hands in hers, and Belle pulled him into the dance. It was easy enough to lead, and he let her do so for a few steps, before suddenly pulling her into his arms and whirling her around the room. _This_ was dancing. Belle held onto him, pulling away and coming back, revolving around her partner as he guided her across the floor. Belle felt as though she were floating, that she would fly off into the night if he were to let her go. She was surprised by how good it felt to move with him, to be held by him, his hands warm in hers, strong on her waist. He picked her up off her feet and spun around, and Belle felt like singing as she put her arm around his shoulders. Joy coursed through her; this was right, it was so right, their arms warm around each other, their bodies moving together. She never wanted this moment to end. But it _did_ end, and they found themselves on the far side of the ballroom, panting with exertion, and something more. Belle's heart pounded. For a moment it was there, the key to the curse, if only she could reach out and take it. She was so close to understanding it,so close to understanding what she felt about the Beast. She realized that she was looking up into the Beast's eyes, into his beautiful human eyes, and had been for far longer than appropriate. He noticed he was staring, too, at the same moment; they turned away, embarrassed. The Beast gave her his arm.

     “Would you like to sit outside a minute? Dancing can get quite hot,” he said.

     “I'd like that,” Belle replied, wishing that her heart would stop trying to leap out of her chest. She crackled under his touch, entirely too keyed up. If he touched her again she might scream, and if he took his arm away, she thought she would cry. She didn't know what she felt; it was all too confusing. The Beast seemed to sense this, as he led her to a bench under a bank of starlight, for he gave a small chuckle.

     “I haven't danced in years,” he said. “I'd almost forgotten the feeling.”

     Belle smiled, not trusting herself to speak. The Beast glanced back into the ballroom; she sensed him hesitating.

     “It's foolish, I suppose, for a creature like me to hope that one day he might earn your affection,” he said, his voice oddly stiff.

     Belle looked up, surprised. “Oh, I don't know.”

     “Really?” He was startled; it was not the answer he was expecting. Something entered his eyes, some strong emotion. Was it hope? “You think you could be happy here?”

     Belle hesitated. This castle, this life...it was everything she had ever wanted. And him...he was...he was everything, almost...but she had been his prisoner. True, she wasn't sure she had been since the wolves, but still, if he even remotely thought... “Can anybody be happy if they aren't free?”

     She watched the Beast's face change, the hope vanishing, being replaced with shock, surprise, realization, self-disgust, sorrow. He looked down at his hands. Belle's heart leaped; he didn't think of her as his prisoner, and hadn't for a while. Did that mean she was free? Free to be herself, free to come and go as she pleased, free to even-

     “My father taught me how to dance,” she said, hurrying away from that train of thought. “I used to step on his toes a lot.”

     The Beast gave her a tiny smile. “You must miss him.”

     “Very much.” So much that she could cry sometimes, and yet her place was with-her place was beside-

     The Beast interrupted her thoughts, sounding suddenly excited. “Would you like to see him?”

 

 

Author's Note: Ah, l'amour. Or rather, in which Belle is mildly freaked out by how erotic that dance was, and how much she enjoys that eroticism. I hope you liked it! As ever, please do let me know!

Also, this is the dress I based this gold dress on: http://www.artsunlight.com/artist-photo/Francois-Boucher/portrait-of-marquise-de-pompadour-by-Francois-Boucher-042.jpg The movie dress is beautiful, but it's so totally not period-appropriate that I just can't like it. So.

 

 


	21. Evermore

**Chapter Twenty-one: Evermore**

 

 _Can anyone be happy if they aren't free?_ Belle's words rang in Adam's mind as he led her up to the West Wing. What was there to say to that? Better them than the memory of other times he had escorted a woman to his personal chambers. Adam winced away from that memory. All those women he had taken advantage of, to ease the band around his lungs with their kisses and caresses. Now he was going to show Belle the Mirror, and try to find the words to tell her that she had not been his prisoner since she saved him from the wolves. Let her see her father. He hoped the man was well.

     The Mirror lay beside the rose, face down so that Adam would not have to see himself. He picked it up.

     “This mirror will show you anything you ask it,” he said, pressing it into Belle's hands.

     Belle looked intrigued. “Anything?”

     “As far as I've ever looked,” Adam said. He had looked out onto the people he thought had loved him, and realized how little they did. Like the Atlas, it was more curse than gift.

     Belle held it in both hands. “I'd like to see my father,” she said.

     Adam turned away, knowing that this was not a moment to be shared. Some things were private, and despite their friendship he did not dare to presume. But _were_ they friends? He had thought they were, and then they danced and she was so _right_ in his arms... _Can anybody be happy if they aren't free?_

     Belle gasped behind him, and Adam turned back. She was gazing into the Mirror, horrified.

     “Papa!” she cried, holding out the Mirror for him to see. Maurice struggled against a group of men, fighting to free himself. “What are they doing to him? He's in trouble!”

     “Then you must go to him,” Adam said, watching as one of the men punched Maurice and he doubled over.

     Belle looked up at him, shocked. “What did you say?”

     Adam raised his eyes to her's. “You must go to him. No time to waste.”

     For a moment they stared at each other. Belle looked aghast, and Adam suddenly hated himself for showing her the Mirror and ruining their lovely evening. But this was right. To keep her when her father was in trouble, when she was not happy, not free...It was unkind, it was selfish, and she was his _best friend.._. _Goodness is a choice_. Belle made to hand him the Mirror and Adam shook his head.

     “No,” he said. “Keep it. That way you always have the chance to look back on me.”

 _Idiot. Why would she look back at you? It's all your fault this is happening to her father_.

     Belle took a step back, staring at him. The look on her face was unfathomable; confusion and worry and something else that Adam couldn't name. He held himself straight, trying to look encouraging, even as everything in him fought to send him screaming to her feet, to beg her to stay. But no, she was not his prisoner, not his pet. And she wasn't free, and she wasn't happy, and Adam was damned if he would keep her here against her will a second longer. Belle turned and moved away. Paused, looked back, her face still a study in confusion. Then she picked up her skirts and ran from the room, heels clattering against the marble floors. In a moment, she was gone.

     Adam let out the breath he had been holding and clutched at his chest. _Belle, Belle, I'm sorry, I thought you knew you were free, I thought you had decided to stay; I hoped we were friends; I'm so sorry, I never meant for any of this to happen. Oh Belle, I want you to be happy, I love you so much, I love you, please be happy, don't go, don't go, please don't go_...

     He couldn't breathe. His lungs constricted and Adam doubled over, clutching the plinth, gasping. His clothes were too tight; he tugged off jacket and cravat and waistcoat and still he couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe...

     There were only two petals left.

 

*

     It was Cogsworth who found him, walking into the West Wing on his stumpy mantle clock legs, for once brimming over with hope and delight. Adam, hearing the door creak, hastened to throw his suit on the bed and wrap himself in a velvet banyan, delaying the inevitable moment when he ruined his family's hopes.

     “Well, master, I have had my doubts, but everything is moving like clockwork,” Cogsworth said, and Adam saw to his horror that Lumiere, Plumette, and Mrs. Potts had followed him into the room. “True love really does win the day.”

     Adam looked down at the rose, unable to meet their eyes. “I let her go.”

     “What?” roared Cogsworth.

     “Master! How could you do that?” Lumiere sounded so horrified that Adam realized he had counted on Belle being a prisoner for force the match. He closed his eyes.

 _Because she is the only one who truly sees me. Because her father is in trouble. Because she deserves so much more that this_. The words would not come around the band that crushed his lungs. “I had to.”

     “But _why?!_ ”

     It was Mrs. Potts who answered, who understood. “Because he loves her.”

     “Then why are we not human?” Lumiere, the irrepressible optimist, sounded devastated.

     Cogsworth was merely furious. “Because _she_ doesn't love _him_ , and now it's _too late!_ ”

     The words were daggers to Adam's heart. She _didn't love him_. He had known it was impossible, but Adam had _hoped_...They were right to be angry with him, to hate him. He had damned them all as surely as if he'd destroyed the rose himself.

     “She may still come back,” Plumette said.

     “No,” Adam whispered. Didn't they understand? She had only been here because she was a person of integrity. “I set her free. I'm sorry I can't do the same for all of you.”

     There was a long silence. Adam dared to look at them, standing there staring at him in varying levels of surprise and anger and disgust.

     “Come, my love,” Lumiere said, and taking Plumette in his arms, led them out.

 _Don't go, don't go, please! I had to do it, can't you see?_ Adam watched them leave the room, the door swinging shut behind them. _What did you expect? Everyone always leaves you, you worthless, selfish, arrogant wretch_. He turned and stumbled towards the window, shaking. It was over. He loved Belle, and she was gone, back into the real world. She would save her father and live her life. She would forget him. Looking down onto the grounds, Adam could see the yellow-gold of her dress, a tiny speck as she rode Philippe towards the gates. _Leaving_.

     He could not bear it, this feeling that his heart was being ripped in two. All those years he had built walls around himself, and yet she had laid him bare in a matter of days. Adam tracked Belle's movements through the gardens, climbing the turrets to keep her in sight for as long as possible. It was too late to rebuild his walls, and Adam didn't even want to. He wanted Belle to be with him, to be the man she expected him to be, even though it was hopeless. He could pretend that she would return, pretend to himself that she was just in another room, reading or baking or laughing with the maids. He would talk to her in the library, as he had talked to his mother in the rose garden. If, of course, he managed to make it to the library again. He stood at the top of the tallest tower now, looking out towards the gates, at Belle disappearing into the forest. A bright spark of yellow-gold, and she was gone, swallowed up in the winter darkness.

 _I'll stay here_ , Adam decided. _I'll stay until the end comes. And then I'll, then I'll_...

     He looked at the ground, hundreds of feet below him. When the end came and the staff were gone, Adam knew what he would do.

 

 

Author's Note: Another rough chapter, another moment when Adam makes me cry. I hope you're happy! Please let me know what you think in the comments!

 

 

 


	22. Mob

**Chapter Twenty-two: Mob**

 

     There were no wolves out tonight. Perhaps they knew that this was an emergency, Belle thought at she and Philippe pounded through the snowy woods. Perhaps they worked for the Enchantress. No matter. Belle's heart pounded. She had put her boots on before leaving the castle, but had forgotten her cape. She shivered, angling Philippe toward the band of green that marked the edges of the curse. _Come on, come on_. They had to get back to Villeneuve. _Why_ had she taken Philippe when she could have used the Atlas? It would have been so much faster, and she had run right past the library.

 _Because you were thinking about him_ , a tiny voice inside her whispered. _Because you weren't thinking about magic_.

     Which was entirely ridiculous; Belle had been surrounded in more magic this week than most people experienced in their lives. But she _had_ been thinking about the Beast, about the look on his face as she left him. The way he had drawn himself up, encouraged her to go. He had _let her go_. And she hadn't known what to say to him. _I don't want to_ , had flashed through her brain, and also _come with me_. But saving Maurice was paramount, and Belle had forced her confused emotions back and simply run.

 _I should have told him I'd come back_.

     But it was too late now, too late to do anything but rescue her father and take him back to the castle, away from the villagers who were hurting him. _Why_ were they hurting him? Surely they had no reason to harm Maurice. He had never done anything to hurt anyone. Belle shivered. _They never liked us_.

     Philippe leaped out of the winter woods into summer, hurtling down the path to the village. It was as if he had sprouted wings, so fast and untiring was he. It seemed to Belle that the distance was smaller than she remembered, that the forest had compressed itself to allow her the shortest possible journey. Was that possible? Perhaps it was part of the magic. But why would it help her?

     No matter. Here was the bridge into the village. Belle guided Philippe across it and up the road into town, past their own little house towards the town square. Torches flickered ahead of them; it seemed the entire village was out watching the spectacle. Belle rounded the corner and saw a wagon beginning to move away. A prison wagon. Oh God. She pulled Philippe to a halt in front of it, forcing the driver to a stop.

     “Stop!” she bellowed, leaping off of Philippe's back, skirts flying. She flew around the wagon, still clutching the Mirror in one hand, and climbed onto the back. “Papa!”

     Maurice clutched at the bars, eyes huge and relieved. “Oh, Belle! I thought I'd lost you!”

     Belle swung around to look at the villagers, standing arrayed around the tavern steps, watching her with cold hard faces. Gaston and his cronies watched at their head. No one moved to help her.

     “Let him out!” she snarled. “He's hurt!”

     The driver, a weedy man all in black linen and a scraggly wig, came around the side of the wagon and put his hand on the doors, barring Belle's hand from the lock. “We can't do that, miss, but we'll take very good care of him.”

     And Belle realized just what he was.

     “My father isn't crazy!” she looked back at the villagers, searching for someone to help. “Gaston, tell them!”

     There was something ugly in the man's face, even as he tried to look conciliatory, and Belle wondered just what she had been missing here. “You know how loyal I am to your family, but your father's been making some unbelievable claims.”

     “It's true, Belle,” said Monsieur Jean, coming forward. “He's been raving about a beast in a castle.”

     Belle stared at them. So Maurice had tried to rally them to save her, and this is what had happened. Something cold and corrosive formed in the pit of her stomach. “I've just come from the castle, and there is a Beast.”

     Gaston laughed. Laughed. “You'd say anything to set him free; your word is hardly proof.”

     “You want proof,” Belle snarled. She raised the Mirror, fighting the urge to cosh him with it. “Show me the Beast!”

     The Mirror rippled, as it had when she asked to see her father, and the Beast's face became clear. He looked terrible, his face tormented; she could see the stars behind him and realized that he must be sitting atop one of the towers. Waiting for her. She turned the Mirror towards the villagers. They fell back, crying out in horror, leaving only Gaston and Père Robert at the forefront.

     “There's your proof!”

     Gaston grabbed at the Mirror. For a moment they struggled, then he twisted it out of Belle's hands, not caring if he hurt her, and examined the Beast.

     “This is sorcery!” he cried. “Look at this Beast! Look at his fangs! His claws!”

     The villagers shrieked again, an alarmed babble filling the night. Belle felt suddenly cold.

     “Don't be afraid! He's gentle, and kind!” she cried. “He's been cursed somehow-”

     “The monster has her under his spell!” Gaston's face twisted, hatred filling his eyes. Hatred? “If I didn't know better I'd say she even _cared_ for it!”

     Something inside Belle snapped. These people, locking her father up, taunting her, taunting _him_ , the best person she knew.

     “He's not a monster, Gaston. You are!”

     Gaston raised his hand and for a moment Belle thought he was going to hit her. Belle stood her ground; let him see what she would do to him if he tried. But Monsieur LeFou stepped forward and touched his arm, and Gaston spoke instead.

     “I've heard of the effects of dark magic, but I've never seen it before with my own eyes,” he said to the assembly. “This is a threat to our very existence! It'll come after us in the night!”

     “No! The Beast wouldn't hurt _anyone_!” Belle cried, but knew it was hopeless. Who were they going to listen to, their war hero or the funny girl who had been missing for a week? She looked at Père Robert; the priest looked back with real alarm.

     “Please, listen to her!” he shouted, but was drowned out by the villagers' yells. The mob was not about to listen to reason.

     Gaston jerked his head towards Belle. “Lock her up! We can't have her running off to warn the creature!”

     “What, no!”

     Two of Gaston's minions leaped at Belle, catching hold of her fine dress. Belle punched and kicked at them, screaming in outrage. She landed a solid blow on Tom's face and aimed a kick at Dick's crotch, kicking and clawing and biting at them. _Please, won't someone help me!_ But they were stronger than she was, and together manhandled Belle into the prison wagon, helpfully opened by the asylum master. They flung Belle into Maurice's arms and slammed the door behind them.

     “You bastards!” Belle screamed, clutching at the barred windows. “Let me out at once!”

     The villagers looked back at her, and Belle went cold again at the looks of satisfaction on their faces. It came home to her then that they _didn't care_. They didn't care a whit about her, or Maurice, or anyone who dared to openly defy their way of life. They were afraid, and they were not the sort to try and understand. Only Père Robert and Monsieur LeFou looked horrified.

     “Stand guard, don't let them escape,” Gaston said. “This creature will curse us all if we don't stop him! Well I say we kill the Beast!”

     “ _No!_ ” Belle screamed, but they were beyond listening to her. Gaston turned and looked at her through the bars.

     “I'll deal with you later,” he said. “That's a promise.”

     “Over my dead body,” Maurice snarled, and Gaston smiled and turned away.

     “Don't hurt him!” Belle screeched out the window. “Père Robert, _help me!_ ”

     But the priest was lost in the crowd, as they ran about to arm themselves, pulling down iron railings, raiding the blacksmith's forge. Men and women, twisted and made malleable by fear. Belle caught a familiar face in the crowd them. Agathe. The woman stood near the fountain, her grey eyes steady on Belle's.

     “Help me,” Belle gasped. Agathe nodded. The next moment she was gone. “Oh God.”

     Belle sank down and put her face in her hands. What had she done? All of her friends, her own Beast, they were back at the castle, unprepared for this onslaught. Gaston had them singing a war song now, as he led them out of town with murder in their hearts. What hope did the castle have against them? Teapots and mantle clocks and flying feather dusters? And the Beast-how could he protect himself from the mob? These were not wolves that he could fight off. They would kill him, and it would be all Belle's fault. She wailed.

     “ _Belle!_ ” Maurice was shaking her; she realized he had said her name already. “Please, Belle, I need you to help me understand. _How did you escape_?”

     Belle gaped at her father. Escape? “He _let me go_ , Papa! I was never his prisoner, not really. He sent me back to you when we saw you were in trouble.”

     Maurice stared. Belle really looked at her father then, and saw how tired and grey and disheveled he looked. What had happened to him this week, to make him look so? Surely _someone_ had listened to him when he came back and begged for help? She rooted around in her pocket for the rattle that she had grabbed before leaving her bedroom. Proof.

     “Look,” she said, pressing it into Maurice's hands.

     “Wha-how did you-?” Maurice looked stunned, clutching the carved flower.

     “He _took me_ there!” Belle said. “I know what happened to mama. He helped me to see.”

     “Then-then you understand why I had to leave her there,” Maurice said. “I had to protect you, I've always tried to protect my little girl. Probably too much.”

     Belle smiled at that. “I understand. Please, will you help me now? He's my friend; I can't let them kill him!”

     Her friend, yes, but so much more than that.

     “I could try to pick the lock,” Maurice said, smiling a little. “After all, it's only gears, and springs. I'd need something long and sharp.”

     Belle reached up and pulled the pin out of her hair, feeling it swish down around her mostly bare shoulders. Maurice grinned at her and took it. “Perfect.”

     He stuck his arms out through the bars and took the lock in hand. Belle knelt at his side, praying. _Oh please, oh please, oh please._ Seconds ticked by as Maurice rummaged inside the lock's innards. There was a soft click, and the doors opened.

     “There! Hurry now!” Maurice swung himself down from the wagon, and reached back to help Belle. Behind them, someone yelled. The asylum master, there to keep watch. He grabbed at Belle, tried to shove her back in the wagon. Maurice swung at him; for a moment all was confusion as they fought. Then the man was yanked off of Maurice, and felled with a single blow to the face-by Père Robert.

     “God works in mysterious ways, my children,” the priest said. Belle and Maurice gaped at him, and he grinned. “I took your horse into the church so they couldn't have him. Go, now, hurry. You may be able to prevent the loss of innocent lives.”

     “Thank you, Father!” Belle gasped. She clawed at her gown, pulling it off and shoving it into Maurice's arms. “Take this; it's too heavy!”

     And she ran in her petticoats to find Philippe and ride back to the castle. She could only hope that she would get to the Beast before the mob did.

 

 

Author's Note: This was very intense to write. It's such a scary scene. Also, Père Robert for the win. Please let me know what you think!

 


	23. Fight

**Chapter Twenty-three: Fight**

 

     There were lights in the forest. Adam, seeing them, felt his heart give a great leap. Was it Belle? He leaned forward over the edge of the turret, searching. Something was wrong-there were too many lights for it to be only Belle and her father. They stretched through the woods in a long winding column. A sound reached Adam's ears: a war chant, the song of a crowd of outraged peasants out for blood and vengeance. Adam's heart began to race. It was not Belle and her father, but a howling mob, led by a man in a red coat, holding the Mirror in one hand.

 _What have you done to Belle?_ Adam crouched next to a stone gargoyle, trying to stay out of their sight. Either this man, this mob, had taken the mirror from her and come here, or she-or she had-but no, Belle would never do such a thing. Would she? They had been friends, Adam thought; she had liked him at least a little. They had read together, laughed together, danced together! He had shown her the Atlas, and she had taken him with her! Adam remembered the strange look on her face tonight, as she left him, when he gave her the Mirror. It hadn't been one of hatred. Adam knew what hatred looked like. So surely-

     “Kill the Beast!” the mob roared, battering at the castle door. “Kill the Beast.”

     Perhaps it was better this way.

     “Master,” Cogsworth gasped behind him. “There you are. I'm so sorry to intrude-”

     “She's not coming back,” Adam whispered.

     “No.” The answer was short and cold and Adam made no mistake as to it's meaning: Cogsworth believed that Belle had set the mob on them. “They're breaking down the door.”

     “It doesn't matter now. Just let them come,” Adam whispered.

     Behind him, Cogsworth spluttered. “ _Let them come?_ Prince Adam, we will do no such thing! We stood by and let you be twisted and abused once; we will _not_ do it again! If you think for even a minute that we are going to _let them kill you_ , you are dead wrong. Stay here, then, and try to keep out of sight. We'll mount the counter attack.”

     And he was gone, hurrying back downstairs even as Adam turned to stare at him.

*

     Belle hurtled through the woods, following the string of lights that was the mob. It wouldn't do to get too close to them; she had no doubt that they would try to kill her if they saw her. Wretched people. Belle had never known true hatred until that night. She knew that once this was over, however it turned out, she would never return to Villeneuve. She would take Maurice and go, forever.

 _Please, please let him be all right. Let them_ ** _all_** _be all right_.

     Philippe crashed through the undergrowth and out into the shadow of the castle gates, which stood open, twisted and mangled. They waved feebly at Belle as she went by.

     “She's back,” said one gatekeeper to the other.

     “Thank God,” replied his companion.

     The villagers seemed to be in retreat, running around Belle and leaping out of her way as Philippe carried her up the steps to the terrace and the front doors. Belle leaped off of his back and hurtled inside, into chaos.

     A full rout was in progress, the castle staff mounting a spectacular counter-offensive. Belle careened through the mess of people and animated furniture, dodging around Lumiere, setting the floor on fire, and the maids flying in people's faces.

     “Mademoiselle!” Lumiere shouted.

     “Where is he?” Belle screamed. “Is he safe?”

     But it was not Lumiere who answered her.

     “Gaston's gone up into the towers!” Monsieur LeFou shouted. “And if you see him, tell him Le Duo is over!”

     “Where's the Prince?!” Belle screeched. In her fear and hurry she didn't realize what she had called him.

     “He's on the highest turret!” Cogsworth bawled as she ran by, taking the stairs three at a time. “Hurry, Belle!”

     Belle ran blindly. The highest turret was not the dungeon tower; that she remembered. This way. Up past the Beast's West Wing apartment, up a dizzying spiral staircase, higher and higher she ran, up and up and up. She had almost reached the top when she heard the gunshot.

 

*

     Adam stood at the edge of the turret, listening to the staff battle the villagers. It seemed so far away and unreal, like he was in a terrible dream. Maybe it would all come to nothing, and no one would get through. Not that it mattered, really. Adam felt nothing but despair. And in that moment, something strange happened. The pressure on his lungs eased, and burst. Adam sucked in a great draught of cold air, feeling it fill his lungs, expanding his chest and back, clearing his head. For the first time in years, he could breathe freely.

     Well, of course. He knew now how the story would end. There was nothing more to be afraid of. Adam closed his eyes and breathed in again. All hope was gone, and he was free of the panic. He knew what to expect now. The good people of Villeneuve would murder their forgotten friends and family, murder their unloved prince, and go back to their simple, ordinary lives, confident that they had destroyed the threat to their safety. Death did not seem so terrible to Adam. _Maybe I will see my mother again_.

     Soft footsteps sounded on the stone behind him. A man with a torch approached. The man in the red coat. Adam looked over his shoulder at him as the man tossed his torch over the edge of the tower and reached for his gun.

     “Hello, Beast. I'm Gaston,” he said. “Belle sent me.”

     No. Adam turned away, tears pricking at his eyes. Not Belle. Gaston went on, remorseless.

     “Are you in love with her?” he sounded amused. “Did you really think she'd want _you_?”

     What was there to say to that? That he did love Belle? That he would always love her? Adam said nothing. Gaston cocked the pistol. Adam looked out over the castle grounds, one last time. _Do not be afraid_.

     The crash of the gunshot exploded into the night. The bullet bit deep into Adam's back, just below the left shoulder blade, fired at such close quarters that it ripped right through him. Adam yelped, and fell forward, off of the tower. The pain was so fierce that he barely realized that he was falling freely, until he hit a lower turret with enough force to shatter the roof tiles. He slid downwards, trying to get a grip, to stop himself, his left arm useless. Blood soaked the tiles, and Adam edged to the far side of the turret, panting.

     That gunshot had not been meant to kill. The man, Gaston, was hunting him, playing with his prey. Adam clung to the roof tiles, shaking, half out of his mind with fear. To die was one thing-he did not fear death. But to be hunted like an animal, to be tortured before the mercy shot. No. _I am not going to die like this_. He leaped from the turret, angling for the next one along. If he could get up higher, to that last pair of turrets over the western terrace, he could leap off and end his life that way. He was heavy; he would shatter on the pavement below. Better to die like that than be hunted. Adam leaped again, stumbling and shattering more roof tiles.

     “I'm coming for you, Beast!” the hunter shouted.

 _Hurry, hurry_. Adam leaped again, reaching the last turrets. _Climb to the top_. He stumbled and hung by one arm; managed to regain his feet. He started to climb upward, and slipped again.

     “NO!” The scream pierced the night.

     “Belle?” He swung around, looking back the way he had come. Belle stood there, in the doorway of a long-fallen balcony, her white petticoats a shining beacon in the darkness.

     “ _Belle!_ ” Adam screamed. “You came back!”

     “I tried to stop them!” she screamed back.

     She came back, she came back! Suddenly, Adam did not want to die. He wanted to live and live and live. All thoughts of the hunter left Adam's mind in the need to get to Belle.

     “Stay there!” he shouted. “I'm coming!”

     If Adam could  make it to her, everything would be all right. But the hunter had other ideas.

 

*

     Belle crept up the last few stairs. As much as she wanted to burst out and frighten Gaston into leaving, the gunshot made her cautious. _Oh please, let him be well. Don't let him be dead!_ Gaston stood just outside the doorway, looking down at the lower turrets. Belle reached out and slid his crossbow bolts out of the holster, just as he reached for them. Gaston started, surprised, and turned around.

     “Belle!” he cried.

     Belle took the bolts and snapped them over her knee, not registering the pain this caused. “Where is he?” she snarled, throwing the broken shafts away.

     Gaston threw down his crossbow and reached for his pistol. “When we return to the village, you will marry me. That beast's head will hang on our wall, and you will see it _every time_ I make love to you, you miserable bitch!”

     “Never!” Belle leaped for the gun, trying to twist it out of Gaston's hands. She'd die before she married him. For a moment they grappled over the gun, then with a great crash the castle started to shake around them-another petal had fallen. The tower's edge crumbled beneath Gaston's feet and he fell to a lower level, the gun spiraling out of his hand to land on another tower, below them, closer to the Beast's room. Belle turned and ran. She had to get there first, to destroy the gun before Gaston could use it again. And where was the Beast?

     The castle rattled and shook around Belle as she ran, great chunks of masonry falling from the towers. Belle leaped over a hole that appeared in the pathway before her, gaining another tower, and looked out over the parapets. There he was, climbing the turrets-what was he doing?

      _He's going to jump_. For a moment Belle couldn't breathe. The Beast stumbled, halfway up the turret, and somehow that jolted her into speech.

     “No!” she screamed, and the Beast looked towards her, so much amazement in his face that Belle knew he had thought she had left him forever.

     “Belle!” he screamed back, holding onto the turret with one hand. “You came back!”

     There was so much she wanted to say, so much she needed to tell him. _I understand now; I'm so sorry this is happening_. The Beast began to leap back across the turrets towards her, favoring his left arm, and Belle realized as he came closer that his shirt was blood-soaked. So Gaston _had_ shot him. Oh, what she would do to that monster when she got her hands on him! The Beast was almost to her, climbing back onto the tower balcony just across from her. For a moment he swung there, scrambling for a handhold, then he pulled himself upright onto the walkway. Almost there.

     A shower of stone fell onto his head, and Gaston leaped down beside him. Belle swore.

     “Gaston! Stop it!”

     Adam shook the rubble from his eyes and tried to regain his feet. Gaston kicked him, sending him sprawling, and picked up a stone rail. Adam flailed, desperate to stand, to fight off his attacker. Gaston hit him with the rail. He hit the wound in Adam's shoulder, smashing him into the wall. Adam squawked in agony. He had been beaten before, but never like this. Never had his assailant meant to kill. Adam was a broad, muscular beast, but the blows hut beyond anything he had ever felt before. He could feel his ribs cracking under the pressure and struggled to breathe. Gaston kicked him again, along the bridge that led to the cupola where Adam's mother had once liked to take tea. Adam fell on his face, listening to Belle screaming in the background, begging Gaston to stop. He wouldn't stop, not until Adam was dead.

     Rage blossomed in Adam's chest, and not the anger of a spoiled young libertine. This was far deadlier, cold and corrosive. And Adam heard his father's voice in his ear.

     “So this is how you die. Like a coward.”

     Adam crouched, listening to the hunter advance on him. He leaped around just as Gaston swung the stone railing at his head, and caught it midair. For a moment they struggled, Adam pulling himself to his full height. He forced the stone out of the hunter's hand and, flinging it away, grabbed him by the neck and forced him backwards until Gaston was hanging over the edge of the cupola, a two-hundred foot drop below him and only Adam's arm keeping him from falling. He scrabbled at Adam's wrist.

     “Kill him, kill him now!” his father cried in Adam's ear.

     “Please-I'll do anything!” Gaston cried. “Don't hurt me, Beast!”

 _Beast._ Through the rage and the pain, the word struck Adam like a bolt of ice. Beast. Monster. Wretch. _No_. _I am better than that_. He pulled Gaston close, until their faces almost touched.

     “I am _not_ a _beast_ ,” he said, and flung the man away, back onto the safety of the cupola. “Go! Get out!”

     The hunter scrambled to his feet and ran away, a coward at the last. Let him go. Adam turned back to Belle, watching on Adam's own balcony, just across the way. He dropped to all fours, preparing to jump.

     “Don't!” Belle cried. “It's too far!”

     Adam smiled; didn't she know he could fly if he had to, that he would make it across to her come what may? He ran the length of the cupola and leaped, flying across the drop between them. The balcony came up fast; Adam made it hands first, and dragged himself up over the ledge. Belle, flattened against the wall, smiled at him as he stood.

     For a moment they stood and smiled at each other. Giddy joy bubbled up inside of Adam. _You came back_. His heart sang as she smiled at him, and Adam realized that she had heard his words to Gaston. Then an explosion rent the night.

     The bullet hit Adam in the center of the back, ripping through him and sending him crashing to the ground. Blood spattered over Belle's white petticoats. She was screaming, wrapping her arms around him, trying to get him to stand upright, but Adam could not get his legs to work. The bullet had punched right through him, and for a moment Adam seemed to stand outside of himself as he realized there was a fist-sized hole in his chest.

     “Come on,” Belle cried, trying to pull him towards the door, and safety. She looked back at the hunter, standing on the bridge behind them. “Please! _No!_ ”

     The second bullet sent Adam flying out of her arms, back into the balcony. He rolled down the steps and across the floor, coming to rest at the base of the rose's plinth. He lay still, unable to breathe, unable to feel his legs, his own blood pooling hot around him. The pain was incredible. Belle ran to his side as outside the hunter gave a horrified shout. The sound of falling stone filled the air. Then all was silence.

 

 

Author's Note: Yes, this is an evil cliffhanger. And yes, dual perspectives! WHATEVER WILL HAPPEN NEXT? I'd keep writing, but I have to go to work now. PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK. I am a needy writer girl and I need validation! And as always, thank you for reading!

 


	24. Redemption

 

**Chapter Twenty-four: Redemption**

 

     The Beast's hands were fluttering, his fingers grasping at nothing. Belle flew across the balcony to him and threw herself down at his side. There was so much blood, great gouts of it welling up from the wounds in his chest and back. Belle had never known how much blood could fill one body. She knelt in the great scarlet lake, and the hot sticky blood soaked into her skirts as she bent over her darling friend.

     “Belle...” he gasped.

     Belle knelt beside him in all that blood and took his hands in hers, reaching up to cradle his head. “I'm here. I'm here, my dear one, it's all right-”

     The Beast folded his fingers around hers. “You-you came back.”

     “Of _course_ I came back,” Belle said. Oh God, there was so much blood; she would never stop its flow. Already her petticoats were soaked through. She tried to smile, to reassure him against the inevitable. “I'll never leave you again!”

     He gave her a tiny smile. Blood filled the corners of his mouth; his chest rattled. “I'm afraid it's my turn to leave.”

     Belle burst into tears. “Please, no. We're together now. Everything's going to be fine, you'll see!”

     Again that small smile, as her tears dripped into his face. He pressed her hand, the pressure faint, barely there. He was going. “At least I got to see you again...one...one last time.”

     And he slipped away from her, the light going out of his eyes, his beautiful human eyes. _Dead_. The castle rumbled around them, and Belle knew that the last petal had fallen.

     “No!” she cried, shaking him. “Please, no! Come back! _Come back!_ Come on, wake up, please! _Wake up!_ ”

     He lay still, unmoving, his sightless eyes staring up at her. Belle shook him again. “No, no, no, there's magic here, you _must_ wake up! Come back, please, _don't leave me! Please!_ ”

     Gone, gone. Murdered. And it was all her fault. Belle broke down sobbing, and lay herself across his ruined chest, pressing her face to his cheek. His fur was still warm; she could almost pretend he was sleeping. She didn't care that she was a blood-soaked mess, didn't care that the villagers were still in the castle. He was gone, forever, her darling, her soul. Belle wailed into his shoulder, howled her grief into the night.

     A footstep sounded in the room behind her.

     “Belle.”

     Agathe stood there, beside the plinth. Belle raised her head from the Beast's shoulder.

     “I found him, Agathe. Do you remember? That night we talked about souls. He was here all along.” She gazed down at the Beast, still and silent and _dead_. “Please,” she wailed, shaking him again. “I only just _found_ you!”

     “His soul reaches out for yours,” Agathe said.

     Belle keened at that. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered to the Beast. “I love you _so much_ and I didn't even know. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I _love you_.”

     She pressed a kiss to his forehead; his fur soft as velvet under her lips. She lingered, smelling the peppermint of his soap beneath the musky tang of blood. The soap he had bathed with before their dance, mere hours ago, before everything had gone to ruin. Belle rested her cheek against his again. Just one more moment with him. Just one, before he was gone forever.

     “Forever can spare a minute,” Agathe said behind her.

     Belle wept, great sobs of pain and grief, and cradled her Beast to her. She did not see Agathe raise her hands, or the rose petals beginning to swirl under their glass. She did not see the magic begin to unfold. She could only weep for him, her soul whose name she would never know.

     Magic began to spill down onto them, falling around them like spring rain. Belle raised her head to look at it as it swirled around her and under the Beast, wicking away the blood, lifting him up. Belle clutched at his hand, not understanding, and let the magic lift her to her feet. Golden light filled the room as the Beast was pulled from her grasp, to slowly spin in the magic as it held and caressed him. Belle's heart pounded; she couldn't breathe. _Oh please, oh please, oh please_. He rippled in the golden light as though a great shock charged through his body, and suddenly the Beast was gone, and it was a man floating there. A man, whom the magic set on his feet as tenderly as a parent setting down a child. Belle stared, gasping.

     Adam stumbled, confused. He had slipped into a warm, quiet place, where the pain had vanished and the Enchantress had whispered to him. But the warmth was gone now, and sweet mercy he hurt all over. And it was cold here, the icy cold of eternal winter. He knew this place. The West Wing. He didn't remember it being so cold. He swayed, dizzy, and put out his hands to steady himself. He caught sight of them and gasped; they were smaller, thinner, _human_. Adam put his human hands to his human chest, feeling the solidity of human flesh and bone beneath them, and looked down at his bare human feet, legs prickling with gooseflesh as he stood on the icy marble tiles. His human hair was draggled all about his shoulders and he could breathe again, because the bullet holes were gone, even if he did hurt all over and _oh lord this is real,_ ** _this is real_** -

     Adam turned around, and the look of astonishment on his face was enough to take Belle's breath away. Her face was tear-stained, her nose red and her hair a mess, and she was the most beautiful woman Adam had ever seen in his life and she loved him, _she loved him_. He wanted to laugh and cry and leap into her arms and kiss her, but he did none of these things. His heart pounded as he stood looking at her. Did she understand what had happened? _Please. Please Belle, see me_.

     Belle went to him, her heart trying to leap out of her chest. He watched her with wide blue eyes, so full of hope and love and amazement that she almost burst into tears again. She reached up and took his face into her hands, sliding her palms over his smooth warm cheeks. _Alive, you're alive!_ He smiled as she touched him, leaning into her caress just a little, as though he didn't want her to be afraid. As though she could fear him. Belle got her fingers into his soft gold hair and tipped his face down to hers, looking into his eyes, his beautiful eyes. Looking for _him_ in this new body. And there he was: her sweet, shy, funny love, her soul who loved books and dancing and beautiful things, who had sent her away because he loved her more than he had ever loved himself. Belle smiled, and a wave of relief that passed over his face. He smiled and smiled, reaching up to touch her face, and Belle pulled him into her arms and kissed him.

     Adam sank into Belle's kiss. Not for her a chaste peck on the lips, no: her kiss was fierce and tender and passionate and clumsy, all at once. Adam kissed her back with everything he had, trying to put a lot of unsaid things into their embrace. Belle wrapped her arms about him and held him close, and they broke apart, panting, and touched their foreheads together.

     “You came back!” Adam gasped, just as Belle cried, “You're alive!”

     Belle laughed, and tears began to run down her face. Adam's vision blurred, and suddenly he was crying, too.

     “You died, you _died_ , you were _gone_ and it was all my fault!” Belle said, running her hands over Adam's body. She put her hand to his heart; it pounded under her palm. _Alive_. “Oh God, I'm so _sorry_ -”

     “Don't be, don't my dear one, it's all right, it's all right, you did nothing wrong! _You came back!_ ”

     He held her back, hands gentle on Belle's shoulders. “You came back, Belle, and I love you, _I love you-_ ”

     “I love _you_ ,” Belle said, “I love you _so much_ , and I don't even know your name.”

     For a moment he stared at her, this man who had been the Beast, so surprised that Belle almost laughed. Then he began to grin, a wide smile that stretched across his face and brightened his eyes, and Belle found herself smiling back.

     “My name is Adam,” he said, straightening a little as he introduced himself. “Adam de Courcy.”

     “Adam,” Belle repeated. She put her arms around him again, reveling in the feel of his warm, living body in her arms. “How singularly appropriate.”

     “Why?” Adam grinned a little, puzzled.

     “Didn't you ever pay attention in church?” Belle replied, and shook him a little. “ _Adam means Man_.”

     Adam stared at Belle, amazed. He was a man again, a new man, because of her. And she was here, holding him, touching him, loving him! Great joy blossomed up inside of Adam, chasing away the last of the pain and fear. Laughter bubbled up in his chest, and he picked Belle up off of her feet and swung her around, and the light poured into the room through the mended windows, as the winter fled like an outraged ghost, leaving summer in its proper place.

     “May I kiss you, Belle?” he asked at last, setting Belle down on her feet.

     “You may, Adam,” Belle replied, and Adam pulled her to him and pressed his mouth to hers. If he could spend the rest of his life kissing her, loving her, it would never be enough to repay her.

     “It was love, wasn't it?” Belle gasped when they finally broke apart. “It was love that broke the curse.”

     “Yes, it was love,” Adam said. “I had to learn to love, and earn the love of another. But I never even hoped-”

     “I know,” Belle replied. “You didn't, did you? I could tell.”

     “You really love me?” he said, suddenly shy.

     “Yes.” She put her hands on his face again, stroking his soft warm cheeks. “And I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you, if you let me.”

     It was enough to set him off crying again, and they sank down onto the West Wing floor in a great pool of early-morning sunlight, and Belle pulled him onto her lap and just held him close as they wept and rocked together. The faint sound of a great uproar outside reached them, but for now it was enough to sit here and hold each other, sharing kisses and tears, and giggling together.

     “I never used to want to love,” Belle said softly, rubbing her lover's back. “It seemed a foolish thing, bound to end in hatred and heartbreak. But I never want to leave your side.”

     “I never needed anybody before,” Adam admitted. “I want to be loved so badly, but I never hoped it would happen.”

     Belle smiled. “We're together now. Everything's going to be fine.”

     Adam stroked her cheeks, and smiled. He couldn't seem to stop smiling. “I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange?”

     “Is that Shakespeare?”

     “Yes, _Much Ado About Nothing_. Which you really do need to read.”

     Belle burst out laughing. “Come on, my dear one. Let's go find the others. I want to see what they look like.”

     Adam's face lit up. “They're free! I was so afraid I would kill them.”

     “But you didn't,” Belle said, hauling him upright. “Come on, I can hear them from here.”

     They joined hands, lacing their fingers together, and ran out of the West Wing, heedless of their state of relative undress. At least there was no more blood; the magic had cleared that away. They ran through the castle, down newly-repaired staircases and through sunny golden hallways, towards the front doors.

     “Look!” Belle cried, pointing at the railings of the main staircase. They were festooned in garlands of flowers. “The castle itself is celebrating!”

     Adam laughed aloud from sheer joy, and together they strode out the front doors into the morning sunlight.

 

 

Author's Note: I hope you all like this, because it was REALLY HARD TO WRITE. There will be a few more chapters of these two blithering idiots cooing like doves at each other, because I want to get them to the Celebration Ball. They've also had a hell of a trauma and deserve to coo and fuss and be generally happy. So. :-) Thank you as always for reading and PLEASE leave me a comment. I'm needy. 

 


	25. Reunion

**Chapter Twenty-five: Reunion**

 

     It was Plumette who saw them first, making their way through the front doors into the throng of people, staff and villagers reuniting after their short and brutal war. A path cleared around Adam and Belle as they walked into the early morning sunshine, and Adam heard Plumette's voice ring out.

     “Lumiere! _Look!_ ”

     Adam looked around, trying to locate them, hoping against hope that they were happy and well and human. And there was Lumiere, dressed to the nines all in gold, as he had been that last awful night, and there was Plumette beside him, resplendent in white, and they were smiling all over their faces.

     “Oh, my prince!” Lumiere cried, and bowed so extravagantly that Adam almost burst out laughing from joy.

     “Hello, old friend,” he said, and all but leaped into the older man's arms. Alive, alive! Alive, and human again.

     “It's so good to see you,” Lumiere said, clutching Adam close. “Look at you, _mon ami_ , a new man!”

     Adam pulled back and grinned, too happy to be embarrassed by his state of undress. “Are you all right? I heard a fight.”

     “Yes, we fought them off well,” Lumiere said, grinning. “Plumette is very handy with gunpowder.”

     Plumette embraced Adam, laughing. “They won't forget that rout in a while! Hello again, my dear. I told you she'd come back, didn't I?”

     Tears pricked at Adam's eyes. “You did. I just didn't believe-”

     “ _Adam!_ ”

     Mrs. Potts ran across the terrace and caught him up in her arms. For a moment Adam swayed, leaning against her, the woman who could almost be his mother. Mrs. Potts held him tight for a long moment, then pulled back and kissed him on the cheek.

     “Oh my dear boy, I knew it would happen! What did I tell you, darling?” she cried, and Adam burst into tears.

     “She came back!” he said, laughing a little around his tears. “Mrs. Potts, she _came back!_ ”

     Mrs. Potts brushed the tears from his face. “Of course she did. I never doubted she would.”

     Belle put her hand on his arm, smiling, and the staff, his family, swarmed around them, patting Adam and Belle on the back, on the face, laughing and hugging and crying. There was Cogsworth, looking pleased as a grandfather at his grandson; there was Chip, leaping into Belle's arms; there was Chapeau, with tears in his eyes; and Maestro Cadenza and Madame de Garderobe laughing and shouting in Italian as they cuddled Frou-Frou. And in the midst of all the jubilation came a shout.

     “Belle!” Maurice came up the steps onto the terrace, weaving through the crowd, Père Robert just behind him.

     “Papa!” Belle shrieked, and threw herself into her father's arms.

     Maurice caught her and held her tight, and Adam saw the look of relief that flashed across the man's face. He took a step forward and stopped, unsure of how to proceed. The priest, still a newcomer when the Enchantress came, stared at him.

     “Why, it's Prince Adam!” he exclaimed. “How did we forget you, your highness?”

     “We were cursed,” Adam said, and hugged himself.

     “Where is the Beast?” Maurice asked, looking around with real worry in his eyes. Adam felt a pang; Maurice had no reason to feel anything but disdain for him. But then- “Were you able to rescue him?”

     Belle sobbed out a laugh, and pulled her father towards Adam. “I did! Here he is, Papa. This is Adam. Prince Adam de Courcy-we were going to come work for him last year, remember? Before he was cursed!”

     Maurice met Adam's eyes and stared. Adam straightened, watching the man take him in, his heart pounding. Belle's father had no reason to love him. “You're the Beast- _you're the Beast_? But- _how_?”

     “I told you, he was cursed!” Belle said. “The staff were able to fight off the mob, but Gaston got through and threatened him-”

     “Monsieur,” said Adam, stepping forward. He didn't want to hear about Gaston, couldn't face the memory of that horror just yet. He bent his creaking body and knelt before Maurice on the warm pavement, bowing his head. “I don't ask for your forgiveness, because what I did to you is unforgivable. I was...not in my right mind at the time. I don't say that to excuse, but as an explanation. But I am sorry. I'm so sorry, Monsieur Durant. I was a monster to you, and I apologize.”

     For a moment, in the midst of the happy crowd, Adam was alone with Maurice. Head bowed, he awaited the scorn that he was certain was his due. But Maurice Durant bent down and, taking Adam by the arms, raised him up.

     “Come now, Prince...Adam, is it? What's done is done, and it has all turned out all right. I knew I would forgive you when Belle went haring off into the night after you. She would only do that for someone she dearly loves, and where Belle leads, we all must follow.” Maurice's voice was warm and kind; Adam stared at him in amazement. “But what _happened_ here? I remember now, we were coming here to paint new frescoes, but then...”

     “We were cursed,” Cogsworth said, “when Prince Adam was an obnoxious little toerag to an Enchantress-”

     “ _Cogsworth!_ ” cried Plumette, and Adam started to laugh.

     “It's all right, Plumette, I _was_!”

     Cogsworth continued, undeterred. “He became a beast, and we who had stood aside and let him act that way were turned into objects, as was our due.”

     “And he had to learn to love before the last petal fell-”

     “And be loved in return-”

     “And we had all lost hope, but then _you_ came, monsieur, and Belle, too-”

     “And for some reason they began to care for each other-”

     “And then the mob came and we fought them-”

     “And Gaston shot him three times-” Belle all but shouted over the others.

     “He shot you?” Mrs. Potts shrieked.

     “-and he died in my arms,” Belle finished, a touch hysterically, “but I told him I love him and he came back-”

     “He _shot you_ and you _died_?” Mrs. Potts repeated, the horror in her face almost comical. “Adam!”

     Adam hugged himself again, the pain in his body reasserting itself. The places where Gaston had beaten him and where the bullets had ripped through him ached.

     “It really hurt,” he managed, tears welling up again. When would he stop crying? He was so happy!

     Lumiere, ghost white, took him by the arm. “Come inside, Prince Adam, at once.”

     “And Belle,” said Mrs. Potts. “Somebody fetch blankets and brandy. Come along, now.”

     Adam let himself be borne back into the castle, his family a loose knot around him. Belle and Maurice followed; he held a hand back and Belle took it, squeezing. _Alive, alive, we are alive..._ Mrs. Potts shepherded them into the little drawing room, blessedly quiet after the joyful chaos outside, where only a day ago Adam and Belle had sat together and mourned for their lost mothers.

     “Come, sit down,” Chapeau said, guiding Adam into a chair. “Let me lift your shirt up, that's it.”

     Adam let Chapeau pull his shirt up to his neck, and heard the collective hiss as they all looked at him. He looked down at his chest; great purple bruises had blossomed across his breast and sides where the hunter had beaten him with that stone ornament. Chapeau touched Adam's back with gentle fingers.

     “There are scars here,” he said in his soft voice. “Fully healed. I wonder why she left them?”

     “To let me know that I'm really alive,” Adam said, accepting the glass of brandy that Lumiere put into his hands. He couldn't seem to stop crying, which was ridiculous. He had never been as happy in his life as he was at that moment.

     “It must have been quite a fight,” Cogsworth said, his face pale. “Those are terrible bruises.”

     Adam barked a laugh. Belle burst into tears.

     “It's all my fault!” she wailed. “I thought if they knew about you, they'd let Papa go, not hunt you down! I was only trying to _help_!”

     Maurice took her into his arms. “Hush, Belle, it is not your fault. Nor yours, either, Adam. Neither of you stood a chance against that mob.”

     “Eh, we gave them a good fight,” Lumiere said, putting an arm around Plumette. “If only we had not let that hunter through.”

     “What happened to Gaston, anyway?” Maurice asked.

     Adam shuddered-what _had_ happened to him? He had heard a shout, but had been too distracted by his own injuries to care. Belle raised her teary face from Maurice's shoulder.

     “The footpath crumbled and he fell. I think he's dead. I wasn't really paying attention; he'd just shot Adam point-blank in the back...”

     The memory of those gunshots was very recent. They had been so close to losing each other forever, of losing everyone that they loved and cared for. Adam and Belle both broke down crying again. It struck Adam as ridiculous that they should both be spiraling between extreme joy and utter devastation, and he began to giggle through his tears. Lumiere advanced on his with more brandy.

     “I'm so happy!” Adam told them, laughing and crying, and took a slug of the drink. He held his hand out to Belle; she came to wrap her arms around him and rested her cheek against his, both of them crying and laughing. Together. Alive. Adam got his arms around her and didn't think he would ever be able to let her go again.

     The reasonable adults in the room stood looking helplessly at each other, in the face of all this emotion. It would be a long time before any of them really knew what had transpired in the towers; before they really knew what Belle and Adam had gone through before the end. For a long moment there was only silence in the little drawing room, broken by the lovers' happy tears. Maurice was the first to make a move.

     “Right, you two. I don't pretend to understand what's gone on here, but you've both clearly had a great shock. Best to let it all out, so go on and have a good cry.” He looked at Mrs. Potts, who struck him as having an even head. “They'll need to eat; it'll help. Probably sleep, too; I know that Belle at least has been up all night. Is there any way to make them some breakfast?”

     “Yes, I can find Monsieur Cuisinier-” Mrs. Potts began, but Plumette interrupted.

     “There is a banquet laid in the front hall. I think it must be a parting gift from the Enchantress. People are helping themselves,” she said. “I will fetch a tray.”

     Adam leaned his head on Belle's breast and watched her go, swishing in her white gown.

     “Thank you,” he said. Belle echoed him. Adam sat up and smiled at her, and brushed the tears from her cheeks. He wanted to kiss her, to hold her, to dance around the room and carry on like a child at Christmas. Instead he was surrounded by his friends, his family, and they are all looking so worried that Adam started to laugh again.

     “It's all right!” he all but sobbed. “I'm so happy!”

     Maurice crouched down before them and took their hands in each of his. “Look at me, Belle, Adam. It's _all right_. You wouldn't be human if you weren't reacting in some way. You go ahead and cry. It's all right.”

     Gratitude filled Adam then with such a great swell that he was almost overwhelmed. Gratitude for Belle, for her father, for his family, for the Enchantress who forced him to see them. He clutched Maurice's hand and smiled and wept. _It is all right._

 

 

Author's Note: I'm sorry for the delay in posting this! I moved to a new apartment this past weekend, and things have been a little hectic. I hope you all like this chapter! Thank you for reading, and as always, please let me know what you think!

 


	26. Rest

**Chapter Twenty-six: Rest**

 

     Belle sat on her bed and looked at nothing in particular. It was quiet upstairs, away from the crowds, soothing after all that noise and emotion. The villagers, in full retreat when she had arrived at the castle, had remembered their lost loved ones and returned, and the party was in full swing downstairs. But Belle did not want to be a part of that. The memory of how the mob had turned on her was too fresh. It was better to sit up here, to be quiet and apart until she better understood how she felt.

     Neither she nor Adam ( _Adam_ , his name was Adam!) had been able to stop crying for a good long while. Plumette had come in with a tray filled with food-eggs, bacon, English baked beans, fried bread, and strong coffee-and Maurice and Mrs. Potts had stood over them while they ate. Then Chapeau and Lumiere had borne Adam off to soak on a hot bath (he had protested, but was politely and firmly overriden by the two men, who agreed that hot water would do his aching muscles good), and Plumette had suggested that Belle might want to rest, as well. And suddenly Belle had been overcome with exhaustion.

     “But what about you?” she had asked Maurice, and her father had patted her arm.

     “It's a castle, isn't it? I'm sure Mrs. Potts and Monsieur Cogsworth will find me someplace nice to rest,” he had said.

     And it was true: they had put him in a suite near to Belle's in the East Wing, though not in the tower itself, and Belle had allowed herself to be undressed and put into her nightdress and dressing gown by Plumette. The maid had brushed out her hair and given her a cup of steaming valerian tea to help induce sleep, then kissed her on the cheek and left her alone. But Belle could not sleep; she was too keyed up and anxious.

     She wanted Adam. _Needed_ him. She needed to see that he was all right, that he was breathing and relaxed and well. He had _died in her arms_. Belle hugged herself and shivered. She was so tired she thought she might collapse, but she couldn't sleep alone. There was a truckle bed under Adam's; she remembered that from her first night. She could sleep there. She slid off of her bed and slipped out of the East Wing.

*

     On the other side of the castle, Adam, too, sat on the foot of his bed and stared at nothing. He felt wonderfully warm and calm after his bath. Chapeau had filled the tub with steaming hot water and ordered Adam into it, dumping in an entire box of expensive lavender bath salts that had sat untouched since before the curse fell. Adam had tied his hair back (his _hair!_ ) and sunk into the water, feeling his aching body unclench as he did, stress finally giving way to comfort. Chapeau and Lumiere had fussed over him, going in and out of the washroom, looking for fresh clothes and protesting any time he sat up above his neck in the water. And in truth, Adam hadn't minded. The water was hot and wonderful in a way it hadn't been when he was a creature, warm and soothing against his skin, and it was good to lie in it and do nothing. The castle, too, was warm and soothing again, the summer sunlight pouring in through the washroom windows, illuminating the fresh paint on the walls, the decorative mouldings and frescoes that he had once been so proud of. Everything was clean and fresh and new again, and it had pleased Adam to lie in the hot water and look at it all. Finally, after nearly an hour spent stewing, they had allowed him to climb out and dry himself on a fine towel. Chapeau had presented Adam with a new shirt and breeches and dressing gown, and insisted on rubbing a balm of camphor and menthol into his skin before letting him dress. Lumiere had given him a cup of hot valerian tea to help induce sleep, and they had embraced him again, and finally left Adam to rest.

     But Adam could not settle. He was so tired he felt a bit sick, but he was reluctant to lie down and close his eyes. He wished that someone had stayed with him. He wished that Belle was there, that she had not gone off to her own room. And so he sat on the trunk at the foot of his bed, letting his thoughts wander. He stared down the room towards the balcony, where he had died. _Died._ Because he _had_ died, and the Enchantress had spoken to him, and then he had come back, and Belle was there, and she loved him. _She loved him_.

     Adam smiled.

     A knock sounded at the door; he turned as it creaked open and Belle put her head around it.

     “Hello,” she said. “May I come in?”

     Adam's heart leaped. “Yes, of course.”

     Belle smiled and came to sit next to him. “How are you?”

     “Sore,” Adam replied. “And exhausted. How are you?”

     “Not sore,” Belle agreed, “but exhausted. They gave me valerian tea.”

     “Yes, Lumiere dosed me, too. I can't settle, though.” Adam gave her a shy look. “I'm glad you came. I...missed you.”

     He wasn't sure what to say, or if it was all right to say that. But he _had_ missed her, and Adam had decided to be honest. No more hiding behind facades, no more aloof arrogance. Belle smiled at him.

     “I missed you, too. I...I couldn't sleep alone in my room. It didn't feel right.” She grinned a little, suddenly shy. “It's funny, but I wanted to see you, to be close to you.”

     Adam's heart jumped again. “You broke the curse, Belle. You can sleep wherever you like.”

     Belle blushed and looked down at her hands. “Would you mind if I-if I did something a little untoward? More untoward than being only half-dressed in your bedroom, I mean.”

     Adam stared at her, intrigued and a little nervous. “Of course, anything.”

     Belle turned on the trunk, tucking one leg up beneath her. “I want to look at you. Just stare, for a few moments, without either of us getting embarrassed. I need to memorize your face.”

     Adam felt his mouth turn up at the corners. Of all the things she could have said at that moment to make his heart jump again. “Do you know, a few days ago I wondered if you would ever stop saying things that surprised me. I think that was when I started to love you.” He pulled his own leg up, tucking it under him to mirror her. “Go on, then. Learn me.”

     Belle grinned, and her face went still as she began to examine him. Adam watched her eyes travel over his face, watched her study his eyes, his forehead and nose, his ears and cheeks and mouth. She gazed at him, taking in every detail, from the curve of his eyebrows to the length of his eyelashes. She took in the rough blond hairs that he hadn't yet bothered to shave from his chin and cheeks, the tiny scar in one eyebrow from where he had accidentally, as a child, cut himself with a penknife. Adam felt something open up in his chest. No one had ever examined him so attentively before.

     “You're very beautiful,” Belle said at last. “And yet entirely ordinary. Does that make sense?”

     “I think so. You're not...intimidated by me, then?”

     “I wasn't intimidated by you when you were a beast; I'm certainly not now that you're a man again.” Belle smiled and slid her hands into his. “I wondered what you would look like. And you know, it's funny-I can still see _you_ in your face. Your expressions are the same. Even if I hadn't seen you transform, I would know you.”

     It was the most intimate thing anyone had ever said to him, and Adam suddenly had the great urge to pull Belle into his arms. He squeezed her hands and smiled at her.

     “Belle, I-I don't understand all this. I've never loved anyone before, because they-because I-”

     “Because you didn't feel safe,” Belle replied. “I know. Cogsworth told me.”

     “He did?”

     “Yes. He said you were so used to being abandoned and scorned and made to feel bad about your true self that you locked up your heart. 'With lock and key and Cerberus at the gate'. That's what he said.” Belle shook her head. “You were so broken when I met you, Adam; it puzzled me and made me sad.”

     “I think I'm still broken,” Adam said. He looked down at their hands, entwined between them. “I can't promise that I won't be angry and scared and, and _shouty,_ as Chip said I was. But all those things you said, about being true to yourself and choosing to be good, and wanting to be loved for who you are, not what others want you to be...I want that, too, Belle. I didn't know how to say it before. But I am going to try.”

     “I know,” Belle said. “I wouldn't expect any less of you.

     “And I don't-I don't know how to court women,” Adam said in a rush, the words bubbling up and out. “I never had to do it before. They just came to me, because I'm rich and well-connected, and I was so selfish and arrogant and awful. I damned everybody, ruined everything I touched, and I don't want to be that man anymore-I'm _not_ that man anymore-but you saw those letters, you know what I was, but I swear I won't ever treat you like that, I swear it-”

     “ _Adam_ ,” Belle said, breaking through the flow of words. “I _know_ you won't! Don't you remember what you did last night, after our dance? You _let me go_. I knew how you felt about being abandoned and you sent me away anyway.”

     “I had to,” Adam said. “Your father was in danger. And you weren't free. You said so yourself. You couldn't be happy if you weren't free.”

     Belle let go of his hands and reached up to cradle his face. “I was free from the moment I brought you home after the wolves. I just wasn't sure that you knew it. And you did-you proved it to me. And I was _always_ going to come back.”

     Adam's heart brimmed over then, and he reached out and pulled Belle into his lap, holding her to him, tight but gentle. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you _so much_ , Belle.”

     Belle put her arms around his neck. “We are one, you and I. Two sides of one soul. Like Agathe said.”

     “Agathe?”

     “The village wise woman,” Belle said. “She asked me what I thought of the concept of soulmates the night before I came here. And I think-I think she's the Enchantress. She was here when you died, and then she wasn't. She said your soul was reaching out to mine.”

     Adam began to laugh, amazed. “More and more I think we were fated to find each other.”

     “Me, too.” Belle laughed. “And now I need to lie down, before I throw up from tiredness.”

     “Oh, we can't have that.” Adam rolled off the trunk and stood. “Take my bed. I can sleep on the truckle. Hell, I can sleep on the floor; I'm tired enough.”

     Belle laughed again. “Nonsense, come and lie down next to me. We're soul mates, remember? We can share a bed.”

     Adam felt the blush spreading across his face. “Belle, I'm not-I've been human again for less than two hours; I'm not sure...” He cleared his throat. “I am going to be honorable, Belle. I want to court you before I-before we-”

     Belle grinned. “Adam. We are going to _sleep_. You know, that thing people do when they're tired? 'Sleep, perchance to dream.' All the rest of it can come later. I won't even kiss you, if you don't like.”

     “Oh.”

     For a moment they stared at each other, and then began to laugh, helplessly, as though it were the funniest thing in the world. For a long time they leaned on each other and howled, and at last Adam picked Belle up and popped her down onto the bed, and climbed up next to her.

     “Good night, my dearest darling,” he said.

     “Good night, my darling love,” Belle replied. “Wake me up for lunch.”

     They fell into giggles again, lying facing each other on the pillows, not quite touching. Then Belle reached for Adam's arm and draped it across her shoulders, and put her hand on his other arm. She closed her eyes, and a moment later, she was gone, snoring ever so slightly. Adam grinned, and touched her hair, and snuggled closer.

     “Sweet dreams, Belle,” he whispered, and closed his eyes.

 

*

     Plumette, coming into the room a short time later in search of Belle, found them lying like that atop the blankets, arms gentle around each other, fully clothed. It filled her heart to see them so peaceful. Plumette grinned, and opened the trunk to remove a soft coverlet. She shook it out and settled it over them, covering them from shoulders to feet. Adam and Belle, soundly sleeping, didn't move at all. Plumette tiptoed to the door, smiling.

     “Sleep well, _mon prince, ma princesse_ ,” she whispered, and closed the door behind her.

 

 

Author's Note: Hallelujah, it's written! I've been wanting to write this scene for over a week now, but had too much going on to sit down and work. The calm after the storm, as it were, when Things Are Discussed. I think we are *almost* at the end, because from now on, it's really a new story. One more chapter to go, at least! Yay! Thank you so much for reading, and as always, please let me know what you think in the comments!

 

 


	27. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

 

     “Belle.”

     “Hmmm?”

     “Belle, wake up.”

     Belle rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. One week, and she was more than comfortable sleeping in Adam's bed. It was a nice bed. Soft. Snuggly. And people kept trying to roust her out of it.

     “Belle, if you don't wake up, I'll- I'll be forced to tickle you.”

     Belle cracked her eyes open and glared. “Don't you dare.”

     Adam, leaning on his arms over her, smiled. “I will.”

     Belle rolled onto her back and pulled the blankets up to her chin. “Just who gave you the obscene idea that tickling is an appropriate method of waking up a loved one?”

     “I came up with it myself, would you believe it?” Adam sat down on the edge of the bed, and Belle saw that he was not only up, but fully dressed in a light blue suit, missing only the jacket. “I have your tea.”

     Belle rubbed her hands over her face and stretched. “You absolute darling. Fine, then, I'm up.”

     Adam smiled and reached out to stroke her hair. Belle smiled and leaned into his touch. One week, and she still marveled that she got to live with this man, this extraordinary man, that he was alive and human again and loved her. One week, and he had barely stopped smiling. Now he sat perched on the edge of the bed, his face open and bright and full of quiet gladness. Belle sat up and took her teacup from him.

     “Have people begun to arrive yet?”

     “No, but the staff have been up and doing for hours,” Adam replied. “The ballroom looks amazing; Lumiere was almost doing cartwheels of joy when I looked in.”

     Belle sipped her tea and chuckled. “It's going to be quite the day.”

     So much had happened in the last week since the curse had broken, and Belle still struggled to understand it all. The staff, overjoyed at being human again and learning that they had only been out of time and memory for a year, had insisted that they throw a grand celebration ball. Lumiere had taken the reins and organized the whole thing, insisting that Belle and Adam had more than enough to do without planning a party. And it was true: there had been so much for the two of them to do. That it mostly involved sitting and just talking for hours made no difference to anyone. After all, Belle and Adam still had so much to learn about each other. Maurice often joined them, to Adam's shy pleasure, listening to the story of how Adam came to be cursed in the first place with great interest.

     But there had also been practical work to do, too: letters to write, explanations to be made, people to call on. Adam had spent an hour in confession with Père Robert, and came back to the castle with a lightness in his step that Belle hadn't seen before. Belle had gone with him that day, her first trip back to the village after the fight, and it had taken all that she had not to stomp around in contempt of them all. But the villagers had approached her one by one to apologize, offering small trinkets and tokens to the presumed _princesse._

     “They are trying,” Adam had said to her. “It's very difficult to overcome pride and apologize, you know.”

     And that was why they were having this party, this celebration ball: to show the village that there was no ill-will between them and the castle. Belle had agreed, albeit reluctantly, wondering if she would ever be able to forgive the village for imprisoning her father and killing her lover, all so that she could be put in her place.

      “Forgiveness takes time,” Père Robert had counseled, and Belle had sighed and agreed to the ball.

     Now, the morning of the celebration, she was loath to get out of bed, and so Belle sat drinking her tea, hoping that Adam would stay at her side a little longer. It amused her that he was already up and dressed. Usually she was the one rolling out of bed at ungodly hours, to embrace the day as the sun rose.

     “You're excited,” she said, smiling at him.

     “Well, yes,” Adam replied. “I've been looking forward to dancing with you since our first dance.”

     Belle grinned. “Me, too. I really enjoyed that night, even if it confused me.”

     “Did it?”

     “Oh yes. I wasn't expecting to want to feel your hands on me, before we started to dance.”

     Adam's face cracked into a wicked smile. “I shall have to rethink how gentlemanly I mean to be, if you keep talking like that, my love.”

     “Considering how there isn't a soul in this castle who seems to care that we're already sharing a bed, Adam, I think you had better.”

     Adam blushed a little, and rubbed Belle's leg through the blanket. So far they had only indulged in kissing, even when he wanted to roll over her and take her without another word. It was too soon.

     But still, if she wanted more...

     Adam stood up. “I'm going to leave you to dress, otherwise...otherwise you'll miss breakfast.”

     Belle gave him a sardonic look. She knew exactly what he meant. “Heaven forbid I miss breakfast.”

     “Don't joke, it's very important,” Adam said, eyes wide and innocent. “Must depends on breakfast.”

     Belle laughed and let him go. She rolled out of bed and wandered through the bedroom door, into the next apartment along in the landing. Adam had shown it to her, with the same shyness that had characterized him since the wolf attack, the day after the curse had broken. The apartment had been empty for as long as Adam could remember, part of the West Wing suite. It had been meant for the spouse of whoever occupied the bedroom next door, Adam's room, and contained nearly a mirror image of his own bedroom: an open bedroom and study area ending in a smaller glassed-in balcony, with a washroom and dressing room of its own. Belle had taken it on, turning it into a study of sorts, and Plumette and Madame de Garderobe had joined forces in turning the dressing room into something fit for a princess.

     “I'm not a princess!” Belle had protested, laughing, when they told her.

     “Not yet,” Plumette said. “But you will be, whenever you and Monsieur le Prince decide to make it official.”

     And Belle had given into their wishes.

     The dress they had designed her for this ball hung against one wall, a vision of silk and satin. It was not the yellow dress that she had worn to her first dance-that was far too special a gown to wear today. This dress was of white silk printed with a spray of pale orange roses, its skirts full of lace. Belle ran her hands over it and smiled.

     “And we have fresh flowers for you hair!” Plumette walked into the room, holding a spray of baby's breath on a soft green cloth. “Good morning, mademoiselle. Are you excited!”

     Belle looked at her friend, at the flowers in her hand, and the dress hanging ready for her to wear. “You know, Plumette, I am.”

*

     The ballroom was filled with people, all of them laughing and dancing and spinning. Belle stood safe in the refuge of Adam's arms, smiling up at him as he guided her in the dance. Her dress swished around her legs and her feet barely seemed to touch the floor as they danced, Belle and her blue-eyed prince. Lumiere and Plumette danced nearby, and Mr. and Mrs. Potts danced in a trio with Chip, all of them laughing and happy. Cogsworth with his sister, Chapeau with his mother-all of them happy and reunited with their loved ones. They were surrounded by people, but for all that either Belle and Adam cared, they were alone.

     “Are you happy?” Adam asked, spinning Belle around.

     “Incandescently,” Belle replied. She could almost forget the villagers, surrounded as they were, when he held her so close. She studied Adam's face, still amused at how much she could see the Beast in him. He really was the same man. “This is wonderful, Adam. Thank you.”

     “Thank _you_ ,” Adam replied, “But it was really Lumiere. I've always let him plan my parties.”

     “He is very good at it.”

     “He used to put on spectacles, too,” Adam continued. “And arranged plays with touring players. We can see some Shakespeare now.” He spun her around, and looped his arm over his head as she ran about him.

     “Oh, wonderful!” Belle said, coming back into his arms. She gazed up at him again, painting his cheeks and chin with soft golden hair.

     “What is it?” Adam asked, watching her study him.

     Belle smirked. “How would you feel about growing a beard?”

     Adam laughed, and growled at her. Belle felt the blood rush to her face; their lives would certainly be interesting, if he could do that and make her feel so.

     “Is that what you call being gentlemanly?” she teased.

     Adam spun her again. “You said yourself we would need to rethink what gentlemanly meant.”

     “I did.” Belle stood up on her tiptoes and leaned in close. “Had we better make an announcement, my love?”

     Adam's face blossomed into an even brighter grin. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

     “In so many words, yes.”

     “Well, then, I think we _do_ have an announcement to make.”

     "I love you, Belle."

     "I love _you_ , Adam."

     They grinned at each other, so full of joy that they forgot to continue dancing. The music stopped, and the dancers moved around them, clapping and laughing, and Adam kissed Belle's hand.

     They turned and faced their guests.

 

The End

 

 

Author's Note: And as Bugs Bunny said, That's All, Folks! Thanks for joining me on this wild ride; I've really enjoyed writing and sharing this story with you. Keep an eye out for the next one, "Belle, Book, and Candle", which I'll try to have posted around Halloween.

 

 


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